


Don't You Remember?

by czechTexan



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Fluffy to start with, Helene is a bitch, Tex writes season 4!, but its gonna be pain and suffering, in the best way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:48:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27378964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/czechTexan/pseuds/czechTexan
Summary: Six months after turning back to each other on the bridge, Villanelle and Eve are living a peaceful life together off the grid. But the Twelve have other plans for them. Will they survive the new threat or will being forced to be apart do them in first?
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 34
Kudos: 125





	1. "Are You A Pervert?"

**Author's Note:**

> This is gonna be pretty light for the first few chapters. And then it's gonna go straight to shit. You've all been forewarned! Shoutout to @villasimp on Twitter for sharing plot inspiration and letting me abuse her with angsty plot ideas while I planned this story out.

Chapter One:

“What now, Eve?”

That had been the most pressing question between them the morning after the bridge; after waking up wrapped in each other in Eve’s hovel of an apartment. Once the dust had settled on their long overdue union, one crucial fact still remained.

They were not safe.

The answer, it turned out, was Florence. Eve didn’t know why, really. She had always wanted to visit and had tucked that desire somewhere into the back of her mind, but she found herself blurting it out in response. Villanelle didn’t care. She would gladly live the rest of her days in that shithole little apartment as long as Eve was with her. So they packed up shop and moved to a new life in a safe house in Italy; only one person aware of where they had gone.

The neighborhood was really quire lovely. Stylish, yet modest, Villas lined the road on either side, giving the impression of a middle-class existence. There was enough greenery to provide oxygen to half of Europe, and it was a short walk from the Arno River. Villanelle and Eve enjoyed frequent strolls along the banks, checking out the river front shops as they went, but mostly just basking in each other’s presence. Villanelle often gave eve “pop quizzes” in the Italian language, pointing at some random thing and asking what the locals called it.

All in all, Italy suited them. Until one quiet early morning when the peace of the neighborhood was broken by Eve’s shrill scream. Even the birds outside took flight at the jarring sound as Villanelle was startled from a deep sleep, fully jolting awake when her face met the cold marble floor after she flung herself from the bed in startled fright.  
“Eve!” She shouted, scrambling back up like one of those children’s punching bags that just pops right back up after getting hit. “Eve! Wake up!”

“I’m awake!” Eve gasped, coming down from her terror. “Sorry! Sorry! I’m fine.”

“What was that?” Villanelle asked, clutching her heart as she felt the panic drain from her body.

“I fell asleep on my arms.” 

“Jesus.” Villanelle sighed, pulling the covers back to crawl back into bed next to Eve. “I thought you were being murdered. Don’t scare me like that.” Eve moved to allow herself to be scooped up into Villanelle’s embrace. That was something she had come to appreciate about Oksana from almost that first moment that their relationship had become intimate. This woman, who was written off as a psychopath and only appreciated for her ability to kill for most of her life, was actually so full of love to give. Love that she never really received herself. Until Eve.

“I can feel you thinking, Eve.” And Eve smiled as she felt the rumble of Villanelle’s voice straight to her very core; right to her deepest and darkest depths. She rubbed lazily at Villanelle’s back, over that criminally attractive tiger print robe that suited Villanelle so very, very perfectly.

“I’m always thinking.” 

“Until you’re not.” Villanelle snorts, pulling back to look Eve in the eyes. “What is it?” Her hand comes up to stroke Eve’s face carefully, and Eve feels distinctly like she’s being studied. Like a lab subject under a microscope.

“It’s just…” Her voice trails as she tries to find the right words. Villanelle arches one perfect brow, urging her to speak.

“Sometimes I just want to hunt down every person who ever hurt you.”

Villanelle lets out a soft chuckle, suddenly feeling very warm inside as she cuddles Eve back to her. This is not the conversational turn she expected for a Saturday morning. Actually, she expected less conversation and more…mature…bedroom activities, as was their routine. But it seemed that Eve was ever full of surprises.

“Don’t worry. I’ve already taken care of that.” Her voice is light, like she’s trying to make light of her troubled history, but the way she clings to Eve just a little bit tighter speaks of a need for comfort. Eve wants nothing more than to spend the rest of her days building Oksana back up from a life of being torn down, broken, discouraged from daring to hope for something better for herself.

“Even your mother?” Eve presses, and she feels a soft sigh of air against her neck and then the sad smile that follows pressed against it. “Shh…” Villanelle chides, and a moment later, she’s kissing Eve impossibly deep as she rolls on top of her; pouring every ounce of gratitude she can muster into that one simple kiss. She’s not ready to go down that road with Eve, yet. She will, but not here, not now. She places another brief kiss to Eve’s lips to seal that silent promise and pulls back to look deep into chocolate brown eyes. They gaze at each other for several painfully long seconds. Both of them fight against and revel in the pull that compels them together. Finally, Villanelle smiles down at Eve.

“No more questions. You are spoiling the mood.”

And then they meet, hot and heavy, somewhere in the middle like they always do. A perfect balance of push and pull. Give and take. Light and dark. 

Their tongues dance greedily in each other’s mouths, neither quite getting enough of what the other offers for them to take. Hands are everywhere. On clothes, under clothes, tangled in hair, burning deliciously hot paths over each other’s skin. Villanelle trembles at the touch when Eve’s hand slips inside her robe to find the raised scar tissue just to the left of her belly button. If she really had to think about it, that was the moment she belonged to Eve, and she would always have the mark to prove it.

Eve swallowed the growl that came up from Villanelle’s throat as she felt the former assassin’s nails rake a path up her back all the way to up to Eve’s matching scar from Rome. The memory of “you’re mine” that came before that gun shot springs fresh to both of their minds and now, so much time on the other side of Rome, Eve can admit that Villanelle had been right in a twisted way back then. 

“Mine…” She thinks she hears Villanelle faintly hiss into her throat. In an instant, Eve’s fingers dig hard into Villanelle’s scalp and the Russian feels her head pulled back sharply before Eve’s teeth sink into her neck, biting a trail up that gloriously long, graceful column up to her ear. She thinks she hears Eve answer in kind. She can’t be sure because Eve is falling back against the pillows beneath her as the sound of a cell phone fills the room, frustration etched deep into every inch of her features.

“Mother fucker…”

“You know, you don’t have to answer it.” Villanelle entices, her voice lingering somewhere between a low, sensual purr and a petulant whine. She already knows Eve is going to answer it, but that doesn’t stop her from rolling her hips straight where Eve needs pressure the most in one final bid of protest.

“Hello?” Eve answers, sounding more annoyed that she had intended, and stifling a moan as Villanelle trails lower down her body.

“I’m great, Brizio. How are you?” At the sound of Eve’s boss’ name, Villanelle rolls her eyes and redoubles her efforts at seduction. She really couldn’t stand Brizio. It wasn’t anything personal, don’t get her wrong. He just…had the most consistently awful timing. Put another way: he was a chronic twat swatter. At times it seemed his sole purpose was to prevent Villanelle from getting into her girlfriend’s pants. 

She enjoys watching Eve squirm her way through an agonizingly lengthy phone conversation for a bit, especially when she draws blood from biting her lip so hard trying to hold back a delicious moan as Villanelle’s tongue finds her sopping wet pussy. She experiments with different strokes and combinations of fingers and tongue, until finally, she hears the magic words. Music to her ears, really.

“Brizio…I really don’t mean to be rude, but I’m trying to get laid right now.”

Villanelle springs back up Eve’s body like an apex predator pouncing on her prey. Whatever Eve was about to say next is muffled against the ex-assassin’s mouth as Villanelle’s tongue clashes with hers again. Her eyes all but roll back into her head as she registers her own taste on her girlfriend’s tongue and finds herself overwhelmed with how erotic it is. By some miracle, Villanelle remembers that Eve still has a phone in her hand and she smirks devilishly as she plucks it from Eve’s grasp.

“You won’t be needing this.” And then a second later she turns her attention to the man on the other end of the line, chirping out a cheerful “Bye boss!” in Italian before tossing the phone across the room. But, as she goes to pounce again, Eve has other plans, and instead she finds her back pinned to the mattress and her hands pinned next to either side of her head. Her pupils are blown wide with anticipation and she can see her own expression mirrored back to her on Eve’s face.

“That was rude.” Eve tuts, leaning in agonizingly close. Their lips just barely brush. It’s hardly enough contact and Villanelle can’t help the pitiful whine that comes from somewhere deep in her throat. She could reach. Just a little further. If she could just…

“Uh-uh!” Eve scolds, pinning her down even harder. “I think maybe you should be punished for being rude. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Villanelle snorts in defiance, bucking her hips up into Eve in an effort to get friction where she needs it most. “If you ask me, he’s the rude one. Always butting in to our alone time.”

“I still think you should be punished.” They both shudder as Eve rolls her hips into just the right spot, diving down to steal a quick nip at Villanelle’s pouting lips. “My phone is fragile, you know.”

Villanelle’s hands are sliding under Eve’s pajama shirt again, creeping steadily up her back and hiking the shirt up with them as they go. “And I think you are too dressed.” She practically purrs in that low, wonton, husk of her Russian accent that she knows drives Eve absolutely crazy. But Eve won’t give in so easy this morning. She braces herself against every urge to fling herself at Villanelle’s metaphorical feet on a silver platter and instead, reaches for the drawstring of Villanelle’s sinfully attractive robe, watching it fall open with a hungry gaze.

“That makes two of us, doesn’t it?” Their eyes meet and the room buzzes with the intensity between them. “What is it?” Eve asks after several long seconds of silent staring.

“I just wanted to say I love you.” Tears are pooling at Villanelle’s eyes as she bares her feelings to Eve. No matter how often they express their love, it always feels so delightfully knew. Sometimes, Eve is not ashamed to admit, she still gets butterflies deep in the pit of her stomach from thinking about the woman underneath her. Before she can think any more about it, there’s a sharp smack on her backside that reverberates throughout the room and Villanelle is grinning up at her like the Cheshire cat. “…Villanelle!”

“Back to business!”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
She hates this country. The one she’s had the grand misfortune of being born into. Everything is so dull and gray, and there’s a lingering just-barely-there scent of cabbage that seems to linger everywhere you go. Surprisingly, the only thing more dull, more gray, more…cabbage-y…than the Motherland herself is a Russian prison. Even a juvenile prison. And there’s always so little to do when she isn’t scrubbing away in vain perpetuity in the latrines or talking to some shrink who thinks he can unravel her mind. So, it always seems to come back to pondering just how dull her circumstance is. Pondering and plotting. 

Her father really was the worst kind of arsehole. Villanelle was right. He had promised her an out from this bleak, bleak country. Who cares if the humidity in Cuba turned her hair into a permanent pile of untameable frizz? Who cares if she burnt to a crisp. It was better than the grim, stoic minimalism of Russia. 

She begins to welcome the break from monotonous routine provided by the shrinks who come in periodically to study her. It’s the human contact she minds the least, but even then, they get a little tiresome. Always with their constant attempts to figure her out like she’s some great mystery. Sometimes she wonders how she might compare to the lost city of Atlantis. The Bermuda Triangle. Or even the Akashic records. This place is a fish bowl and she is the prize specimen.

So she’s not surprised when she gets pulled from her work detail and seated in the same tiny broom closet of a room she’s spent countless hours in having her head shrunk, but the man who walks in is no shrink. Absent are the cheap sweater vests, the attentive expression. This guy reeks of something different. More sinister.

He wears a sleek three-piece suit and tie that screams money, and his eyes are sharp and calculating behind a pair of wire-framed glasses. He makes a point of taking the seat opposite the door and the gesture reminds her instinctively of her own father and his paranoid fixation on safety. Then at the thought of her father, she feels angry again. It’s one of the few emotions her environment permits her to indulge in these days. It’s comfortable. Like an old friend. 

“Irina Vasilieva.” The man finally speaks, revealing a Russian accent. “It’s nice to make your acquaintance.”  
Irina scoffs. “I would say the same, but I don’t know you”, she answers in Mandarin. Just for shits and giggles.  
“Mandarin?” The man replies in a cleaner Mandarin dialect, looking genuinely surprised, and a little amused. “That wasn’t in your file.” He ignores the eye roll shot in his direction and addresses her properly in Russian. “My name is Dmitri. I’m just here to ask you some questions, if you’ll indulge me.”

“You are not a shrink.” Irina observes. “What could you want with me?” She already knows, of course. At the very least, she suspects, that he is here about the tragic demise of her mother’s boyfriend. But this is different from her usual visits, that much she is well aware of.

“No, I suppose I’m not a shrink. That doesn’t mean I want something, does it?”

“I’m not stupid.” Irina groans, having enough of this guy already. “Everybody wants something. Favors are a global currency.”

Dmitir chuckles, steepling his hands in front of himself and leaning in closer. “See? You do know me. Now we are getting somewhere. You have something I want, but what can I give you?”

Irina tilts her head, considering him for a moment. 

“Are you a pervert?”

“Excuse me?” His surprised expression causes his eyebrows to get lost in his hair line. 

“You know. Do you get off on underage girls?”

“I’m actually gay. Not a pedophile.” He smirks smugly. “I prefer my men a bit on the mature side, thank you. Not that any of that concerns you.”

“Ah. Now, we are getting somewhere!” Irina parrots back, mocking him. Though, in truth she really could’ve gone without the mental image of his sexual proclivities. But she did ask. “If you don’t want me for my body then clearly you think I know something.”

“You are astute.” Dmitri sighs. Beating around the bush is apparently not an approach that will get him what he wants, and so he decides to just lay his cards on the table. “What would you say if I told you I can get you anything you want? All I need in return is…”

“My father?” Irina deduces.

“It’s rude to interrupt.” Dmitri admonishes, snapping ever so slightly. The sharp edges of his darker personality poke through just barely enough for Irina to take notice. He silently kicks himself for already playing too much into this child’s hands.

“Yes. Your father. Like you said…everything has a price. Name yours.”

Irina smiles, twisted and cruel. She doesn’t need to think about it for a second. Wherever this leads, it’ll be because she chooses to twist the proverbial knife inside her father’s chest. He’s fucked her over too many times to count. He really should expect it anyway.

“I hear Cuba is nice.” She pauses dramatically, making sure that Dmitri catches the hidden meaning in her words. “My father always wanted to visit. I’d like to see it myself.”

“I see.” Dmitri’s expression is strangely shark-like as he absorbs her words. Abruptly, he stands and steps toward the door. “Thank you, Ms. Vasilieva, for this illuminating chat.” He stands abruptly, turning to leave and then Irina is left alone in that small room with a growing sense of dread in the pit of her stomach.

“Wait…”Irina watches him leave, and guards enter the room in his place, hoisting her onto her feet roughly. She realizes a moment too late that she’s made a terrible mistake as his footsteps fade into distance and finally get lost somewhere in the corridor. Her vision goes dark and she feels the black hood thrown unceremoniously over her head and the guards’ grip on her tightens like the coils of a python the more she struggles.

“Wait!!” She shouts curses in every language she knows until her voice is hoarse and the guards are telling her to shut up.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------  
\----------------------------------------------  
Carolyn sits like a gargoyle in the small waiting room outside of her boss’ office. Her stony, stiff-spined demeanor are in stark contrast to the peppy new secretary her boss has hired. There’s little to do but wait and so she decides meditation is a suitable pass-time. But the moment she zones out and finds that zen, quiet space inside her mind, she grows keenly aware of a pair of eyes boring into her.

“It’s rather rude to stare.” She mutters, not opening her eyes.

“My apologies,” The young, peppy, barely-out-of-university secretary says. “It’s just…you’re Carolyn bloody Martens.”

Carolyn sighed. Clearly this child intended to make her wait as insufferable as possible. “Last I checked that was the case, yes. I presume you’re a fan?” She cracks her eyes open and looks sweetly over at the young woman. Anyone with a passing familiarity with the MI6 legend would recognize the fake sincerity.

“Please…you’re work in the 80s is still taught in university!” It’s then that Carolyn concludes that Helen must’ve intentionally hired the head of her fan club. It leaves her to wonder exactly what she’s done to get on Helen’s bad side. Just as she opens her mouth to try to quell the younger woman’s enthusiasm just a tad, her boss is ushering her in. And it’s the most merciful thing the battle axe has done in quite a while.

“Carolyn! Come in! Have a seat!” Helen returns to her desk and swiftly props her feet up, munching away on her usual pringles as she scrutinizes Carolyn with those hawk-like eyes. Carolyn shifts uncomfortably in her seat, feeling distinctly like she’s been called into the principal’s office. The trouble is, she hasn’t done anything. She took a leave of absence after the whole ordeal with Paul. That absence turned into a rather brief attempt at an early retirement. She was feeling a bit worn out in the wake of Kenny’s death, truth be told. Like some of the excitement she had for the job had died with him. For the first time in her life, she truly felt her age deep in her weary bones. A change of pace was in order, but in the end, the job called her back.

“Carolyn…”Helen sighed, looking at her, motherly yet business-like. “How are you?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“We both know you’ve been through quite a lot. That whole to-do with Paul was a bit of a scandal, if I’m being honest. You lost your son, for christ sake.”

“Please.” Carolyn scoffed “Don’t be absurd. That was six months ago. I’m over it.”

“Over it.” Helen mulls it over, considering the thought.

“That is what I said. You still haven’t told me why I’m here.”

“Paul of course.” There is more crunching of pringles and Carolyn holds up her hand in gentle refusal when the can is offered to her.”

“Paul’s dead.” It's a clinical, emotionless statement. He ceased to matter the moment she put a hole in his head. Or, more officially, the moment he put a hole in his own head. There was nothing more to gain from dwelling on the matter.

“Exactly. Quite a hole he left in the chain of command, too. We still haven’t filled it.”

“Are you offering me a promotion, Helen?” 

“No, of course not.” The empty pringles can finally meets its demise among the other remnants in Helen’s waste bin. “The head of the European desk is above my pay grade. I’m simply informing you that you’re in the running.”  
Carolyn absorbs the news with a mask of indifference. Underneath it, she’s still not sure how she really feels about it. There’s some small, repressed part of her that screams muffled through a pillow at the daunting possibility of people responsible for an entire bloody continent. The rest of her will do it because truthfully, she’s bored. Six months since her prized agent ran off with one of her most fascinating investigative subjects. Truthfully, her work life has been rather boring in Villanelle and Eve’s time off the grid.

“Now, there is the matter of your therapy.” The voice is warbled and distant. Carolyn hardly even registers the talking, she’s so deep in thought at the prospect of this new job, and the new challenges therein.

“Carolyn!” She startles at the sound of Helen’s shrill, sharp shout. “Yes?”

“Have you heard a word I’ve said?”

“Forgive me. I’m feeling a bit distracted. What were you saying, Helen?” Again she feels rather scrutinized; exposed. Those sharp yellow eyes bore into her with an uncomfortable sympathy and it makes her skin quiver in disgust.

“I’m going to have to insist that you see a therapist.”

“No.”

She’d rather hurl herself out of an airplane without a parachute.


	2. "I'm A Professional Dog Walker"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Villanelle and Eve continue to enjoy their life in Florence while Carolyn is backed into a corner and Konstantin's vacation in Cuba comes to an abrupt end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you ask: Yes. Yes I did use the Lizzie McGuire movie as inspiration for Paulo and Isabella! Anyway, here's some more fluff. Enjoy it! There's not a lot left.

Ch. 2: I'm A Professional Dog Walker

The rays of sun that waft in through translucent white curtains are bright. Too bright. Villanelle’s face scrunches up in protest when she first registers the brightness just beyond her eyelids. She was having a good dream, thank you very much. She tries for a few more desperate seconds to recapture glorious sleep, but then the smell of breakfast catches her attention. A proud smirk makes its way across the plains of her face and her limbs stretch, catlike and limber, in preparation for the day while her stomach voices its own approval of the idea of food.  
Eve has come a long way with her cooking in only a few months time. She still shudders to think of the many poor, sacrificial, burnt sausages it took to get here, but there is improvement. And she takes every bit of the credit for that. Not even a trace of burn smell lingers in the air as she makes a show of sniffing dramatically to an invisible audience.

She pads down the hall way in her black fuzzy slippers, finding Eve at work in their spacious kitchen. A soft smile finds its way to her face as she stands watching. Eve flits around the kitchen, oblivious to her presence and clearly in a bright mood. She hums an obscure, nameless, upbeat tune and half-dances her way around as she looks for ingredients and pauses intermittently to flip the bacon that sizzles inside the home of its pan. 

“What is that?” Villanelle’s familiar accent finds it’s way to her ears at the same time as her chin meets Eve’s shoulder, peering curiously over the Eve’s work in progress as her hands slide around Eve’s middle. Eve half chuckles and half moans in response. “I think bacon and omelettes are pretty self-explanatory. Don’t you?”  
Villanelle tuts her mild disapproval, as she often was wont to do when Eve was the least bit sarcastic. Otherwise she lets the comment go without complaint and hugs Eve tighter around the middle.

“I meant the song. You were humming just a moment ago.”

“Oh that?” Eve flips an omelette and then deftly tosses some bacon from the pan and onto a nearby plate, swatting Villanelle’s wandering hand from reaching for a slice of bacon. And really, it wasn’t Villanelle’s fault. It was so tantalizing just sitting there on a plate. It would be far more cozy inside of her stomach.

“Shania Twain.”

“Who is that?”

“Really?” Eve cranes her neck to fix Villanelle with an incredulous expression. Villanelle takes the opportunity to steal a quick kiss since apparently stealing bacon would not be tolerated in this house hold! “I need to expose you to more American pop culture.”

“I thought she was Canadian…”

“So you have heard of her!” Eve points out triumphantly, the most shit-eating, ‘gotcha’ expression she can muster plasters itself all over her face. And really, this is what they live for. The inane, domesticity of mornings like these, followed by adventurous afternoons spent exploring the town, and nights spent exploring each other. It wasn’t a perfect life they had managed to carve out for themselves, but it was theirs. Villanelle’s expression softens. Eve can tell they’re pondering the same thing by the way the air in the room shifts from an easy companionship into something a bit more intense; more wanting. Eve sighs contentedly, relaxing into Villanelle’s embrace as she feels first breath and then lips against her neck. She almost, almost forgets that she’s cooking.

“Villanelle…”What was supposed to be a protest comes out an inch more pleading than she intended. She’s rapidly turning into putty in Villanelle’s hands.

“Tell me what you want, Eve.” The whispered breath fans out hotly over her ear and her neck; again, it’s followed by lips that trail down the expanse of her neck. Villanelle emphasizes her command with the roll of her hips against Eve’s back side. She smiles when Eve moans, pleased with herself.

“If I burn breakfast, it’s on you.”

“Don’t burn it, then.”

The hands that had been trying to steal bacon only moments ago travel down Eve’s sides and sneak underneath her work blouse. In the relative warmth of Italy, she had stopped wearing her usual turtle necks. Villanelle seldom missed an opportunity to comment on the improvement in her wardrobe. Again, she took all the credit for it.

“Why are you dressed for work?” Villanelle pouts as Eve turns in her arms, resting her hands at the hem of her Led Zeppelin sleep shirt which Villanelle had taken the liberty of borrowing.

“Mmm” Eve leisurely pecks Villanelle on the lips, pulling back far too soon and leaving the assassin chasing after her lips after they’re gone from her own. “Because despite MI6 paying for this house, we still have to pay the bills.”

“Don’t be rude.” Villanelle chides playfully, in contrast the hands wandering seductively underneath Eve’s blouse, scorching a path across any bit of soft skin they can touch. Eve decides then to turn the tables, taking two hands full of Villanelle’s perfect, toned ass as she closes the distance between their lips. Her tongue is inside Villanelle’s mouth in an instant, scraping across teeth and over the roof of her mouth before their tongues meet and slide gently together. Eve breaks the kiss far too soon again and Villanelle moans in protest. It’s her turn to be the putty in Eve’s eager hands. 

“Oh, I think it’s safe to say that you’re the rude one for trying to make me burn breakfast.”

Villanelle steps forward, growling faintly as she brackets Eve between her arms, dangerously, precariously close to the hot stove. This proximity to danger only makes what’s building between them all the more exciting. Their eyes lock for several long, intense seconds. Brown to hazel. Desire to desire. Eve gulps down her aching need as she feels Villanelle’s presence threatening—promising—to consume her. Their chests heave together in anticipation, but both are waiting for the other to take the next step. Finally, the blaring smoke alarm breaks their trance. Eve mutters a curse under her breath. Just before she turns her attention back to their food, she thinks she catches a spark of predatory mischief in Villanelle’s eyes. She fells it a moment later in the hands that clutch at her hips and the voice that husks seductively right next to her ear. 

“Don’t burn it.” 

A command? A challenge? A playful tease? However Villanelle intends it, her words reach Eve straight to her throbbing loins and she whimpers pathetically, drawing closer to Villanelle in a subconscious effort to chase relief.

“I have to go to work.” And even to her own ears, Eve’s voice sounds pathetic. Especially when Villanelle’s oh-so-devilish hands slither past the boundaries of her trousers and she suddenly feels nimble fingers teasing where she aches the most. Villanelle chuckles smugly against her neck, kissing and biting, making sure that when she goes to work she’s going to wear Villanelle on her.

“I hear so many excuses, Eve, but you haven’t told me no.” God, she was too cocky for her own good. It was a well-deserved ego. Eve could die right there from the things Villanelle was doing with her hands. “Tell me to stop and I will.” Eve moans this time when Villanelle stops teasing, and she’s disappointed at the brief loss of contact. The responsible part of her brain knows she should stop this. She knows she should finish breakfast and head to work, especially after the incident a few weeks ago where her boss called during sex, but…

“Please don’t stop.”

Villanelle preens behind her, eagerly resuming her ministrations. “See, that wasn’t so hard. And you asked so politely, too. I really am rubbing off on you.”

Eve grinds back into her while flipping an omelette and salvaging the almost burned bacon. “I’d prefer that to be a more literal statement.”

And with that, all joking stops. She can feel the predator that lurks behind her, ready to absolutely devour her. She can feel the fingers near her entrance stop messing around and slide home inside her. 

“Don’t burn it.” Villanelle says again. This time, it is absolutely a command. She sets a pace that is somehow quick, and not quick enough all at once. Her fingers fuck Eve eagerly but take agonizingly precious time pushing back in each time Villanelle pulls them out. It’s the most beautiful torture. Eve has to focus with all her might on the stove, or else she’s positive the house will burn down.

“So wet…”Villanelle half croons and half grunts, biting Eve’s pulse point in punctuation. “Just for me.”

“Always.” Eve all but sobs over her omelettes. This heat is delicious, but God…she needs more. Villanelle is, as usual, perfectly attuned to everything that is Eve. “What do you need?”

Eve strains against her desire to focus on the task at hand, and Villanelle’s finger teases just where she knows Eve needs it most to pull her attention away from the food and urge her into an answer. Eve’s neck cranes and her lips find Villanelle’s again, and they melt beautifully into each other. Eve pulls back just enough and again; Villanelle is chasing for more. 

“I need your mouth.” Eve half moans and half cries in wanton desperation.

Villanelle chuckles a predatory laugh that tells Eve she’s about to be thoroughly consumed. That she is definitely going to burn breakfast, be late for work, or both.

And she is about an hour late going into the office. But at least she has the satisfaction of knowing that not one single bacon slice had been burned to a charred, unsalvageable crisp that morning. Even as the persistent dull throb she was certain to feel between her legs served as a reminder of the blaze of passion that swallowed them both and left charred, sated husks in its wake.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
If someone had asked Carolyn a few weeks ago whether she thought she would ever see a therapist, the answer would have been a firm, resounding “no”. Perhaps it was a bit overdue. In nearly sixty years of life, she had never once laid on a couch and talked to anyone while they jotted down notes and picked her brain apart. There’s almost sixty years of repressed baggage to work with inside of her. This sage, wisened, portly looking, black man with gray hair who sits across from her deserves a raise if he can manage to sift through even a fraction of the skeletons tucked away in Carolyn’s closet. Still, she’s as repressed and composed as ever, and they sit in tense silence, locked in a sort of standoff. The clock ticks in the background like a metronome. Carolyn’s eyes scan around the office, looking anywhere but at the therapist.

It's a simple, minimalist environment. She’s found herself seated on a charcoal gray leather sofa across from the shrink in the matching leather arm-chair. The walls are a distasteful knotty pine and the carpet is also a draconian gray color. Hardly an environment that inspires openness, but the British government wanted her to have therapy and this is what they were willing to pay for. 

“Carolyn.” The doctor finally speaks, his tone low and measured, like speaking at a funeral or trying to coax a wild animal. “We can’t ignore each other for the entire hour.”

“Oh, I assure you we can.” Carolyn scoffs, and the therapist makes a mental note of the way she crosses her arms in front of herself as she says this. 

Guarded. Impenetrable. A fortress. 

It’s a well-crafted image that Carolyn has kept up, but every once in a while, he’s afforded the briefest glimpse behind the curtain.

“You seem resentful.” He observes.

“I am.” Carolyn takes out her phone and begins to type out a message, almost entirely disengaged from the conversation at hand.

“Carolyn, how long have we been meeting?”

Carolyn looks up from the bright screen of her phone at the question, she’s visibly annoyed. At him, at her job, at life if she’s being honest. A cruel joke that it’s turned out to be.

“Six weeks and three days precisely.”

“Exactly.” He looks intently at her over the rim of his glasses, like a disapproving grandpa.

“What’s exactly, Dr. Watson?”

“We’ve been meeting here every day for forty five days and this is the most you’ve ever spoken to me in an hour. Did you know that?” Whether or not she realizes it, she’s made progress. And if he played his cards just right, she might make more.

“It had crossed my mind, yes.” Carolyn is unsure where this line of questioning leads and feels a little put off, to say the least.

“What to you make of that?” He asks, arching a curious, seeking eyebrow in her direction.

“You’re the alienist. I should imagine you’ll tell me.” And he chuckles then, amused at her bluntness. In truth, he quite enjoys trying to figure Carolyn out. He’s had many people come and go through his office in his three decades of work. Brilliant, sharp minds. Dull people. Exciting people. Depressed. He’s seen and examined the whole rainbow of human psychology and emotion, but Carolyn? Carolyn proved herself a unique challenge.  
“Oh, I certainly have my guesses, but I want to hear what you think.”

There’s a beat of silence that passes between them. For a brief, fleeting moment, Carolyn appears pensive and thoughtful. For a brief moment, she looks as if she’s on the verge of speaking. Something witty? Something snarky? Something profound? He would never know. The moment is shattered by the shrill, crisp chime of Carolyn’s ringtone filling the quiet space of the room. She snaps back into her business mode and looks down at the incoming call, swiping as she stands from the couch.

“Shame. It appears my hour is up.” Her micro-expression indicates to him that she thinks of this timely interruption as anything but a shame. “And just when we seemed on the verge of a breakthrough. It’ll have to wait I’m afraid.” And just like that, she’s taking measured, authoritative strides to the door, talking about matters he can only just grasp the complexity of with a faceless stranger he’s never met. Yet, he’d be remiss if he let her have complete victory today.

“Carolyn.” He calls when she’s almost out the door. The smirk on his face as she turns to acknowledge him tells her she isn’t going to like what he has to say next.

“One more thing….”  
\-------------------------------------  
“How did it go?” Geraldine asks after nearly an hour of tense silence. Her mother had asked to meet for tea and now here they were, in a quaint little coffee shop just of Shaftsbury Avenue, staring into the abyssal depths of their cold tea in the usual silence that is fraught with all the resentment lingering between them. 

“Why do you assume it ‘went’ any way at all?” Carolyn answers. Her slow, calm, measured tone indicative to Geraldine of immense displeasure stewing underneath the surface.

“Mum, for God’s sake, we’ve been here over an hour. You haven’t called me to tea and said nothing for this long since…” She stops herself. It still doesn’t quite feel right to talk about her brother. Least of all with her mom. 

“Since then.” She settles on a more delicate term that they both catch the underlying meaning of. “What’s happened?”

“The worst thing imaginable.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath on Geraldine’s side of the table and then a resigned sigh. “Oh God…what is it, mum?”

“My therapist seems to think it would be beneficial for us to have a joint session.”  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Paulo…” Eve calls, “What did you do with my stapler?” Eve is almost submerged in one of her desk drawers. Paper work, files, and miscellaneous office supplies are the haphazardly strewn about victims of her fruitless search. In the desk across from hers, her partner sits leisurely kicked back with his feet upon his desk. He appears blissfully ignorant of her search.

“Staplers…” He scoffs in his thick Italian accent. “We are private investigators. What do we need staplers for?”  
Eve emerges from the last drawer of her desk, defeated and empty handed. She fixes him with a deadly stare. She’s got a mountain of case files to organize and she’s already lost an hour courtesy of her horny girlfriend.  
“Where the fuck is it? You had it last.” Just when it looks like she might strangle her child of a desk partner, a spare stapler slides into her line of vision. 

“You can borrow mine, Eve.” Isabella chimes in. She’s an older, just on the cusp of retirement aged woman, who, frankly, could still get it. She could probably stab anyone in the office and they would say thank you. Yet, despite that casual authority, she was also kind and considerate. The model office mate and something of a maternal figure. The fact that eve would dare consider this woman sexually attractive and a mother figure in the same breath was a topic for a therapist, probably, but right now she had more important things on her plate.  
She gratefully takes the stapler and offers a quick thank you before turning back to the mess strung out on her floor.

“Now where the fuck is that file?” 

Eve pauses her search to look slack-jawed in disbelief over at Paulo. He looks so utterly unbothered by the fact that he’s got work to do. If it weren’t for the desk underneath his propped ankles, one would hardly notice he’s supposed to be at work at all.

“You know, you could at least help me.” Eve grumbles.

“Under your foot.” He smirks, cracking an eye open to look at her.

“What?”

“The Martelli file, no? It’s under your foot.”

“How are you so relaxed?” Eve wonders as she stoops to pick up the file. “Don’t you have, like, eight cases to finish.”

“Yes, but I filed my paperwork this morning.” She watches a teasing, smug grin cross over his face as he takes his feet off the desk and leans forward for the first time all afternoon. “Oh wait…you weren’t here this morning.” 

Eve waves him off with a shrug, sitting to organize her file. “Still, that doesn’t explain why you’re always so casual about actually appearing to do your job.”

Paulo shrugs at that. “I have eight cases of cheating husbands. It doesn’t matter how much or how little time I take. They will still be cheaters, and their wives will be paying us to tell them that.”

“Wow…”

“Once you embrace that, this is the best job in the world.”

“Which part?” Eve asks, eyebrow raised in skepticism. “The long hours spying on people and pissing in water bottles or the paperwork?”

Here desk mate lets out a loud guffaw at that.

“You government agency burnouts are always so difficult to please."

Eve has a defiant reply on the tip of her tongue, but someone beats her to the punch.

“He does have a point, Eve.” Two pairs of eyes whip toward the office door to find Villanelle in rather questionable attire. Eve shoots her an amused, critiquing glance but says nothing more. Paolo seems to have lost his tongue entirely at the mere sight of her. “Why stress about something when the outcome will be the same no matter how hard you work?”

“You’re just saying that because you want me to play hookie.” Eve banters back affectionately, accepting the kiss Villanelle casually drops on her lips. If she really focuses, she swears that she can still taste a little of herself on Villanelle after their kitchen experiment earlier that morning. The thought sends a jolt of excitement coursing through her veins.

“Marry me…” Paolo finally utters stupidly from across the room, thoroughly shell-shocked by the charisma radiating off of Villanelle. Christ, she hasn’t even tried and she’s got a man practically frothing at the mouth. Villanelle preens at his attention and the comment, but pulls her arm just a little bit tighter around Eve, soothing the jealousy she expects to be stirring right about now. She says something to Paulo in Italian that Eve doesn’t quite understand. Whatever it is, he’s looking less like a slug than he has in days, eyeing Villanelle with intense interest.

“Eve! You didn’t tell me you had such good taste!” Villanelle mutters something about being the first example of truly good taste Eve has shown and catches an elbow to the ribs for being a dick.

“You’re not her type.” Eve croons out a little too sweetly as she stands and pulls Villanelle to the door.  
“Come on. We’re going to lunch.”

A short while later finds them seated outdoors at a small little bistro on the river. Both of them have soups in front of them. Eve watches as Villanelle stirs her spoon around the bowl pensively. She’s clearly got something stuck on her mind, but more importantly…

“Okay, I have to ask. Who are you today?” Eve eyes the ridiculous outfit up and down, taking in the intricate concoction of harnesses and cables that cover much of Villanelle’s torso over a black tank top and spandex leggings that show off her calves quite nicely.

“Right now, I am yours.”

“That doesn’t explain the leashes. What have you been doing all morning?”

“I’m a professional dog walker.”

“And here I thought dog walking wasn’t competitive.” Eve smiles, but there’s something hidden behind it. Villanelle’s own smile falters a bit when she sees that familiar apprehension behind Eve’s eyes that hasn’t made an appearance in so very, very long.

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

“About what?” Eve deflects. Or maybe she doesn’t know what Villanelle means.

“You know about what. Don’t hide from me like that.” Villanelle coaxes gently and Eve nods. 

“Do you want to talk about it? I mean…we haven’t really….” The statement hangs in the air between them. They haven’t done so many things like a conventional couple. Things Eve, at one point, either wanted or prided herself on having. Standing on the precipice of such a conventional relationship milestone now seemed a bit daunting, to say the least. As if to emphasize the question hanging in the air between them, a married couple walks by hand in hand. Villanelle’s gaze follows them. 

“Do you want to be like that?” replays itself in Eve’s mind as clearly as when Villanelle had first said it. At the time, she had said no, but now, now was different. They were different.

Villanelle sighs from across the table, long and deep. “I think that maybe I’ve always wanted that. At least, what it represents. I’ve been chasing after a sense of belonging for my whole life, Eve.”

“But…?” Eve knows there’s fine print in there somewhere. An asterisk. The addendum at the end of a clause.  
“But with you I have that. You’ve always given me that, whether you wanted to or not. Yes, Eve, I do want to marry you. I want to make you my family officially, but I am also just happy to be with you. It may sound cliché, but it's true.”

“Wow, I kind of feel like a dick.” Eve jokes, smiling when Villanelle chuckles at that despite the mist in both of their eyes.

“You are always a dick, Eve.” Villanelle declares fondly, reaching across the table to clasp Eve’s hand in hers.  
Eve’s foot fidgets with nervous energy. She heaves another sigh to ease the anxiety building up within her.

“I know how you feel, Oksana. I think I want that too, but then I just go back in my mind to my first marriage.”

Villanelle’s nose crinkles with disgust at the mention of Niko. What could he possibly have to do with this conversation? Even one divorce and almost eight months later he was being a proverbial cock block.

“Hear me out.” Eve placates, holding up her hands in surrender as she feels Villanelle’s agitation. “You know I married once for safety—just like you settled for a woman who could provide for you after Rome. Both of those were convenient. And I loved Niko, don’t get me wrong, but I think I loved what he represented more.”

“A normal life.” Villanelle states simply, looking at Eve intently as she explains. Eve nods, they really do share one braincell, and she’s never been more thankful for that.

“Yes, but normal is boring. I don’t want boring, Villanelle. I want you, and Italy, and backpacking across Europe. Just…a life together. Is that okay?”

“That’s everything.” Villanelle’s lip quivers with unshed tears just before she pops the last of Eve’s croutons into her mouth. And suddenly the mood returns to lightness as the weight of their conversation settles.

“Hey! I was gonna eat that!”  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
C U B A

Who needs a cardiologist? The best cure for heart disease, as it turns out, is going from complete stress to the complete absence of any stress. For the last few months, the most Konstantin has had to worry about has been trying not to get a third degree burn while sipping his vodka and smoking his hand-rolled cigars on a beach in Cuba. For all he knew, Europe may as well have been wiped off the face of the map. It was out of sight and out of mind as far as he was concerned. Little did he know that his old job was about to come knocking right on his doorstep again. Literally.

A sharp knock interrupts him as he begins to step into the hot shower inside his hotel room. He sighs and mutters a Russian swear word under his breath, putting his robe back on and looking through the peephole only to find that there appears to be no one on the other side. With a huff, he steps back over to look outside the door again and this time, something catches his attention out of the corner of his eye.

“Christ!” His hand clutches at his frantic heart and there’s the knocking sound again, but this time it comes from the man sitting at his dining table, smiling childishly as he knocks on the wood.

“What the hell are you doing in my room?!” He shouts. His voice is an odd mix of annoyed and frightened. He recognizes this man. It’s not good at all that he’s here. Konstantin knows he’s been found. His breaths come out shallow in his panic and he feels a little bit like he’s been running a race.

“Oh relax,” The balding, gaunt, pasty man chides him. Easy for him to say. He probably doesn’t have a list spanning an entire continent of very powerful people who want him dead.

“I’m not here to kill you, Konstantin. At least…not yet.”

“Ha!” Konstantin barks out a sarcastic laugh. “No? Then why are you here?”

“You’ve been summoned.”


	3. "Have A Seat, Won't You?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carolyn visits Villanelle with a proposition. Meanwhile, Villanelle and Eve have a bit of a storm brewing in paradise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 7500 words and this is now officially my longest chapter of anything ever! Also, no offense at all intended to anyone who lives in any city mentioned in this fic. All descriptions are through the lens of the characters and do not reflect my own opinions.

OSLO 

“It’s so boring here.” Irina complains when Dimitri returns from one of the storefronts in a seedy part of the city. At least, as seedy as Oslo could get. It’s not as flashy as Amsterdam. Not as elegant as Paris. Still manages to have that quaint feel of a small village, but it is beautiful all the same with its scenic views and cottagecore architecture. A world away from the dull stoicism of her homeland, but just as uneventful and dull. The bitter cold bites into her frost-reddened, wind-whipped cheeks, reminding her even more that she should be in Cuba right now. If only she hadn’t come from such a son of a bitch. It sours her mood even more to remember how he just walked away and left her behind. 

“You promised something exciting but instead you keep having me follow you around on chores like some dog.” She’s growing tired of being treated like some ignorant kid. Tired in general, she supposes. She’s not sure who she finds more insufferable: her mom’s dead boyfriend or Dimitri and his stupid games. A car bomb here, arsenic there. He always tells her they’re going to play a game like she’s some dumb child who doesn’t know she’s killing people. 

He is the worst.

“Always so impatient.” He mutters to himself, amused as they walk down the snow speckled sidewalk past the fish market vendors. Irina wrinkles her nose at the stench of dozens upon dozens of fish carcasses all piled up on wooden tables that line either side of the road. Then, as if he’s read her mind…

“I know what you must think of me. You think I’m just a stick in the mud who never lets you have any fun, no?”

“Pretty much.” She admits candidly. No sense in lying when she doesn’t care enough about whether he might feel insulted by the admission.

“You are an honest one, nobody can argue with that.”

“What’s the point?” Irina blurts, tired of his attempt at banter. She stops in the middle of the sidewalk, fists balled up lightly at her sides and frustration etched in every bit of her features. “The postcards, the ‘training’, your infantile little games. What’s the point of all of it?”

Dimitri stands rigid with his back to her, taking in her questions and then remaining silent for several seconds. The inquisitive ones are always the biggest headache.

“Careful, Irina.” He cautions, voice low and dangerous, but with a glint of his usual demented playfulness that makes it sound even more ominous. “You are not ready for such details yet.”

“And when will I be ready?” The teenager scoffs petulantly. She watches Dimitri turn to face her and her eyes widen almost imperceptibly when she finds herself on the business end of a handgun. Then that demented smirk stretches across the expanse of Dimitri’s face.

“You are right. You’re not stupid.” He acknowledges. Quite the opposite, in fact.

“But…?” Irina presses with a demeanor that is completely unbothered by the gun aimed at her. She knows he won’t shoot her in broad day light with witnesses only feet away; whoever he works for won’t like the attention. Whatever this is, it’s not about killing. Intimidation? Making a point?

“But you are too precocious. Too inquisitive for your own good. Just remember, if you ever have it in your head to make me repeat this conversation, something very bad can happen to your father with one phone call.” His voice is low and dangerous, but still eerily tinged with that jovial, innocent tone he favored. The rot of fish draws her mind to the thought of her father lying dead in a ditch and she feels nothing. Nothing except the persistent, stinging resentment of his betrayal.

“I don’t give a damn about my father.” She shrugs. “He’s a bastard.”

Dimitri chuckles, not quite believing her. “Just be more careful.” And then…

“You’ll be ready when you can finally kill me.” He says it flippantly, as if he doesn’t think that will ever happen and she resolves right then to prove him wrong as soon as she can. She’s not entirely sure what she’s gotten into just yet, but she thinks if she turns on her master, a new one will take his place. Maybe the next will be more tolerable. Then again, maybe the next one will be worse. 

He puts the gun away into his coat pocket and produces two slips of paper in its place that look like tickets. “Now, you said you were bored. Let’s go have some fun, then. Shall we?”

“What are those for?” Irina wonders. Her chin tips to gesture toward the tickets in Dimitri’s hand.

“The Viking Ship museum!” He brightens immediately even as Irina groans. He’s projecting far more enthusiasm than that topic warrants in her mind.

Dimitri just shakes his head, tugging her by the arm until she yanks herself free of his grip.

“Come, Irina. A little culture will do you good.” 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Villanelle is dripping with sweat. It’s a cool winter day, but her work today more than makes up for it. She grunts as she plunges a shovel into the earth. The dirt flies through the air a moment later to land on top of the small pile next to where she was digging. Normally, she would be averse to this type of manual labor, but Eve needed her help with an investigation. She was more than eager for the chance to sharpen her under cover skills. Every so often as she digs, she lifts her eyes up to watch a man sitting on a park bench off in the distance. He’s dressed for business in a neatly pressed tweed suit and expertly shined dress shoes. It appears he’s expectant, waiting for a lunch date or a meeting perhaps. Other than that, there’s very little to suggest that this short, balding, painfully average, white, European man is anything out of the ordinary. Still, Villanelle knows well from years of field experience that things aren’t always as they seem.

“Do you like what you see?” Villanelle teases, speaking to Eve through the walkie talkie feature of their iphones. To any casual observer, it would appear that either of them were simply listening to music on air pods. Or perhaps having a discreet phone conversation. 

Eve sits in the unassuming black Volvo parked just up the gravel path underneath the shade of an olive grove. She’s far enough to be inconspicuous, yet close enough that she’s got a decent view of Villanelle making like she’s in Shawshank Redemption, shoveling away at the dirt so that infant olive tree saplings might take its place.

Eve hums, taking a bite of her Italian herb and pepperoncini sandwich. “Maybe.” She teases before switching tack. “You know, it really wasn’t necessary for you to go all in with the whole manual labor bit.” Villanelle scoffs playfully in her ear at that as she continues shoveling and watching their mark. She doesn’t know what she’s waiting for, but she knows she’ll recognize it when she sees it. 

“I’m a landscaper, Eve. Landscapers landscape. Commitment to the identity is crucial to maintaining a believable cover.” She sways her hips a bit and Eve’s not sure if it’s intentional, but there is definitely something to be said about her ass in that olive green jumpsuit that cradles her figure surprisingly well.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you sound more like a college professor.” Eve deadpans, taking another bite and swallowing it down in an effort to stuff down the ill-timed arousal she was feeling. Something about watching Villanelle work just did it for her. Granted, they always seemed to be horny for each other these days. Villanelle could read her the dictionary and she thinks she might find that the most arousing thing in the world sometimes. The way Villanelle purrs into her ear like she did in Rome (and countless times after the bridge) doesn’t help.  
“Ooh, Professor Astankova. I like the sound of that.”

The guy hasn’t moved in twenty minutes. They have time to indulge in a bit of conversation. She knows Villanelle is a professional, a multi-tasker. She won’t let herself get too distracted to keep watch, so Eve decides to chase that comment. She’s suddenly feeling curious.

“Is that what you want? To teach?”

Villanelle chuckles on the other end. “Don’t be silly. I don’t have the patience.”

“Not what I asked. I mean…do you really want to keep shuffling through identities forever?”

“I’ll do whatever makes you happy, Eve.” Villanelle grunts, digging and digging and digging. Eve is surprised she hasn’t dug larger holes by now.

“Forget about me for a second.” Eve pushes, ignoring the “impossible” she hears retorted back to her through the air pod. “What do you want?”

There’s a pause. Villanelle checks on their guy again and takes a rest from her manual labor. She wipes her brow with the back of her forearm. The hair at her temples is damp with exertion and her cheeks are tinged red from both the effort and the faint chill in the air. Eve can’t see her face, but if she could, she would see Oksana. Stripped of her bravado. Contemplative. Unsure.

“Do you remember what you said to me on the bridge?”

“Which part?” Eve jokes. They both said a lot of things.

“About seeing my face when you think about your future. It’s the same for me. There are things I want, but not as much as I need you. Do you get it?”

Eve’s got an answer on her tongue, but she doesn’t get a chance to speak. Villanelle grows rigid and alert in her line of sight and that’s her cue that their meeting is about to start. She pulls out her binoculars and looks a little ways up the path. Sure enough, she sees their mark making his way toward the bench, black trench coat flowing behind his rather tall, lanky frame.

Villanelle gets an off-putting sense of familiarity about the man almost immediately. Sure, she’s met a lot of people in her line of work, but the only ones who left a lasting impression are either dead or pose a threat merely by association to the people who want her and Eve dead. She watches pensively as he takes a seat casually on the bench; tries to place why his slicked back, dark, receding hair line and gaunt facial features look so damn familiar.  
“Eve…” She speaks slowly, cautiously. “Why did you say you needed me to help you again?”

“I didn’t.” It’s an evasive, unhelpful answer. Villanelle tries not to let Eve hear her exasperation.

“Why do you, Eve?”

“Because he’s an old associate of MI5. His wife hired us to see why he’s spending so much time away from home. The usual. I couldn’t get close enough this time.”

“You have binoculars, Eve.” Villanelle points out, suddenly playful again. And maybe it wasn’t an entirely truthful explanation, but she was willing to let it go for the moment. Maybe she didn’t know this man. Or maybe…Eve was unaware of his connection to her and the twelve, if it existed.

“Maybe I just felt like watching you work.” Eve pushed back, the smile in her voice pulling a matching one across Villanelle’s own lips, though part of her mind still nagged her that something wasn’t quite right here. She made a mental note to prod a bit more later.

“Well, you’d better get ready, then. Because you are about to see a professional.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Villanelle is surprised, to say the least, when just after she watches Eve pull away to go back to her office her phone buzzes in her pocket. Of course, that isn’t the surprise. No. What takes her aback is that it is a message from Carolyn. It sets the gears of her already wandering mind turning; grinding to life and clanking noisily inside her head. No one ever looked at her like someone who could be thoughtful, but she is. Deeply.

And right now, she finds herself intrigued. Last time they had a proper discussion, Carolyn made clear how she felt about Villanelle. She was just an asset. A tool. So why would Carolyn want to meet with her?

“What are you doing?” She asks, tilting her head curiously. She finds Carolyn on the other side of the park from where she’d just spent the early afternoon. There is a row of chess tables and Carolyn sits alone at one of them, deeply enmeshed in what looks to be an intense game with an imaginary opponent.

“Precisely what it looks like.” She answers without looking up. The white knight moves to take the black bishop, but then Carolyn looks troubled. And Villanelle sees why a second later. She’s left her white queen vulnerable with that move.

“Why are you playing by yourself?”

“I’m not playing by myself.” She seems a bit irritable about her mistake and moves to rectify it with the next placement of one of the white rooks blocking a check. “This helps me to get into the headspace of my adversaries. To imagine what they might do.”

Villanelle watches her for a few more exchanges, intrigued. Whoever she’s playing today is making for quite the heated match. 

She sits prim and poised; thoughtful. The white pant suit she wears compliments her pieces on the chess board, and her figure, quite nicely. She looms large over her troops like a true puppet master. 

Confident. Manipulative. Capable.

It reminds Villanelle why she feels distrustful of Carolyn after treating so many of her operatives, after treating Eve, like chess pieces to be sacrificed in the name of some grand end game. It reminds her too much of the Twelve. She’s reminded of that first conversation in Eve’s kitchen. She hadn’t really given any thought to it until that moment when they first properly sat across from each other, but they really were servants of the same puppet masters, pulling strings to manipulate the game in their favor.

Black vs. White.

Just two lonely pieces occupying the same chess board stuck in the same game.

Resentment bubbles up in her at the thought of it all.

“Why did you ask me to come here, Carolyn?” Her voice is measured. Clipped. Vaguely impatient. She’s trying not to be too overt with her distrust, but she suspects Carolyn realizes all the same.

Carolyn simply extends her arm toward the empty seat across from her. She doesn’t offer an explanation just yet. 

“Have a seat, won’t you?”

Begrudgingly, Villanelle accepts that Carolyn isn’t going to be immediately forthcoming and takes a seat as Carolyn sets to work resetting the board.

“I take it you haven’t heard from our mutual friend, of late?” Carolyn says casually as she moves her first piece. Villanelle wants to ask ‘for the love of God which one?’. She’s come to understand that they have a number of contacts in common. In any case…

“I haven’t heard from anyone from my old job.” She says that as if there is a ‘new’ job. Carolyn said it herself that Villanelle had little to offer if she wasn’t willing to be a killer for hire. The memory of it stirs renewed bitterness inside her and she parries Carolyn’s latest move with unnecessary roughness, the pawn slamming against the wooden board so hard that a few adjacent pieces threaten to topple over.

“But I suppose you knew that.”

“Oh dear,” Carolyn pretends to fret and their game is forgotten just like that. “I see we’re not in the mood for a chat, today.”

“Why am I here?”

“Oh, very well.” Carolyn mutters to herself. Villanelle doesn’t have the patience for more subtlety today. And if she wants to avoid a scene, it seems Carolyn will have to give in. “I thought you might like to hear that the winds in Cuba have shifted in a rather unfortunate direction.” As if to emphasize her point, the winter wind whips up around their feet and makes small tornadoes out of dead leaves that get carried off on the breeze.  
Villanelle freezes.

Cuba. 

Konstantin.

As much as they wanted to forget it, the life she had here with Eve teetered on a constant brink of destruction while the Twelve was still searching for them. So far, they got by, shielded only by Carolyn doing them both a favor for once. But Konstantin? He would always be one person with the power to unravel that illusion of a peaceful existence that they’ve carved out. Whether he knew it or not.

Villanelle swallows the lump in her throat, suddenly feeling desperate to be anywhere but here. Anywhere but now. She wishes she could go back to earlier in the morning when she had woken up yet again to an armful of Eve, which led to lazy cuddling and kissing before they finally had to peel themselves away from each other.  
“And is that who you were playing earlier?” Villanelle’s fidgeting uncomfortably, feeling trapped in this situation. When Carolyn speaks, she seems far too calm; far too unflinching.

“Don’t be silly, Villanelle. You know as well as I do he’s not the one calling the shots.”

“So then…”

“Helene. I believe you’re familiar.”

Ah yes. Helene with her shiny her, her unusually large, beak-like nose, her hawkish eyes to match, and her tiny chair that was not for sitting.

“And what do you need from me?” Carolyn takes pause. She hadn’t expected Villanelle to sound so resolute. She’d given up this line of work for a life of blissful romance on the Italian coast, after all.

“You know Konstantin. Perhaps you know him even better than I do. I need you to get to him before they do. I don’t imagine it will bode well for either of us if they get to him first. Do you?”

Villanelle feels a chill deep in her bones that is so much more than the bite in the frosty air. It’s a foreboding dread that courses through her veins with every pump of her heart and settles deep in the pit of her stomach like a lead weight.

“No, I don’t.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------

When Villanelle gets home later that evening, she still feels that ominous, looming fear monster over her shoulder. It’s breathing down her neck, frothing at the mouth, licking its lips, and threatening to swallow her whole. Images of the worst kind flash before her eyes for the first time in months. Eve had managed to assuage her concerns when they first went on the run, and then again when they agreed to try and live off the radar in Italy, but she had forgotten just how terrible it felt to think of losing Eve.

And that’s how Eve finds her. She’s hunched over the island of their kitchen, hands clutching a white knuckle grip on either side of the granite counter top. She’s breathing heavily like she sometimes does when Eve finds her sitting awake after a rare nightmare. But it’s the way she trembles all over that compels Eve to move from where she stands at the edge of their kitchen.

“Babe, what’s the matter?” She’s never quite seen Villanelle like this and it scares Eve. Her hands come up to cradle Villanelle’s face. She takes the way Villanelle’s eyes squeeze shut in comfort as a good sign, and then a moment later she finds herself being absolutely enveloped by Villanelle’s lanky arms as if she’s the most valuable, rare treasure in the known universe.

“What’s wrong?” Eve whispers into Villanelle’s ear. Villanelle simply holds tighter, burrows further. Whatever’s going on, she needs this. She needs Eve. Eve’s hands find their way into the wisps of hair at Villanelle’s neck. She scratches and twirls and plays with them. It soothes Villanelle like it always does. Like a puppy having a belly rub.  
“You smell like home.” Villanelle smiles against Eve’s neck, kissing a spot behind her ear fondly.

Eve smiles against her shoulder, feeling the tension and worry in Villanelle dissolve into nothing. She’ll ask again later, but for now, they have plans that she doesn’t want to spoil.

\----------------------------------------

The restaurant is nice, yet quaint. It’s small and cozy enough to create a sense of intimacy as they sit illuminated in candle light, yet it also feels expensive. The décor is posh and upscale, but inviting. It suited them like a silk glove sliding perfectly onto the hand it was tailored for. They had found this place shortly after arriving in Florence. It was a compromise of sorts, at first. Villanelle had insisted on spoiling Eve with a night out for dinner, and Eve had insisted on a more lowkey venue. Since then, the small little venue had become a favorite of theirs.  
Tonight, the occasion is for no other reason than because they could. Something Eve had learned early on was that Villanelle needed little cause to celebrate, to indulge in expensive meals, to crack open the top shelf wine. Which, she supposed, is why Villanelle had two bottles of champagne stored in the fridge that first day Eve found her in Paris. In turn, it’s an aspect that Eve comes to enjoy and frequently look forward to. She finds herself quite often thinking about that next night out on the town or the cozy night in watching movies with a shared glass of expensive vintage wine dwindling between them. 

Every day with Villanelle is truly a surprise.

“Do you like it?” Villanelle watches Eve take her first bite with a quizzical expression, like she’s studying her for any sign of displeasure.

She hadn’t let Eve so much as touch a menu for the evening. And when they arrived to the restaurant, there was already a table reserved and wine chilled and waiting for them. Eve had honestly never felt so utterly important. Not even with Villanelle going out of her way to make her feel that way on a daily basis.

The dish is some sort of a pasta dish in a cream sauce with shrimp that she’s not familiar with, but it is positively orgasmic the moment it hits her tongue and she finds herself having to stifle a moan. Eve’s eyes catch the patrons at a far table looking back at the two of them as she lifts her glass to her lips. 

“We’re being watched.” She notices, laughter colors the edges of her voice. Villanelle pulls a cartoonish shocked face, looking them both up and down. Villanelle is dressed in Eve’s favorite of her tailored blazers. A black one with dark green vertical stripes that accentuates her figure beautifully. Especially with equally well tailored trousers to match. Eve wears a complimentary low cut black dress and stylish, expensive stilettos. By Villanelle’s request, she wears her hair down in loose waves that cascade over her shoulders.

“I can’t imagine why. You look beautiful.”

“Charmer.” Eve smiles. She’s humoring Villanelle, but she still sounds the slightest bit hesitant. “The food is amazing, by the way.”

“Eve…”Villanelle sighs, bringing Eve’s hand up to her lips and kissing each knuckle, speaking in between. “If only you could see yourself the way I see you. It really is quite the view from over here.”

Eve feels the warmth of what she recognizes as home begin to spread through her at that. She’s spent a good deal of time over the past few months kicking herself for the time she spent in denial of her feelings. Villanelle was always patient with her, always ready to reassure her that it just mattered that she finally had come around. That was enough. Still, it didn’t absolve her of the guilt of knowing how dismissively she’d treated Villanelle in the past. But, she supposed, they both had fucked up. And both had the scars to prove it.

“Mmm, I’m sure it is, if it’s anything like mine. What’s the occasion for tonight, by the way?” She laughs as Villanelle all but chokes down a large bite of pasta before answering. “Chew your food.” She chides, like she’s speaking to a five year old.

“Since when do I need an occasion to spoil you?” She jokes, but Eve notices how it doesn’t quite reach her eyes like it normally does. How something is just so slightly on the wrong side of normal in her tone. Eve senses that whatever she was grappling with in the kitchen earlier is teasing at the edge of her mind again. 

“You don’t.” Eve purses her lips thoughtfully, she’s a flea’s dick away from psychoanalyzing again. Something she knows Villanelle hates. “I was just curious.”

Villanelle smirks. “That mind of yours never gets any rest.”

“I’m not sure yours is lately, either.” Eve observes, teasing. She’s prodding to find out more about the kitchen, anything Villanelle will allow. The way Villanelle’s eyes widen and the playfulness slowly drains makes her wish she hadn’t said anything at all. She reaches out across the table until her hand finds Villanelle’s cheek, warm and pliant underneath her palm. 

“Hey….”Her voice is a gentle whisper that tries at soothing the tension creeping back into Villanelle’s shoulders. “What’s wrong? Talk to me. Please.”

Villanelle shakes her head to clear away the intrusive thoughts, letting herself be grounded by Eve’s touch, her scent, her presence, her everything. Oh, how she wants to dive headfirst into all that is Eve Polastri and never emerge again. Instead, she settles for allowing the lightness to flow back in between them, dismissing Eve’s concerned gaze once more.

“Not here.” She whispers, placating Eve and promising more later. “Let’s not ruin the night, hmm?” She takes a swig of red wine, noticeably deeper than the casual sips she’s been taking so far. “It’s a special occasion, after all.”  
“Oh, and what’s the occasion?” Eve sits thoroughly enthralled by and enamored with Villanelle in this moment. Even with other patrons nearby and a waiter checking in on them intermittently, it’s remarkably easy for them to let the world and every worry that comes with it fall away; to let nothing matter but just the two of them.  
“Eve!” Villanelle fakes a dramatic gasp, earning laughter from Eve. “Do you not remember? I’m shocked.” Of course she remembered. Time made no sense in a life with Villanelle, so it was a wonder either of them kept track, but she remembered. 

“We’ve been here eight months.”

“That’s right.” Villanelle has a far away look in her eyes again. This time it’s a wistful expression, like she’s thinking about the past rather than worrying about the present.

“Did you ever think we would get here?” Eve wonders, mirroring the thoughts in Villanelle’s head. “After everything.”

After Rome.

They’ve had so many discussions about Rome. Even a few arguments to settle the residual resentment stemming from the incident that is permanently etched into Eve’s skin, but like everything else between them, Rome is water under the bridge. Another item on the list of things they shouldn’t have done to each other.  
“Honestly? I never really thought about it.”

The surprised and faintly hurt expression on Eve’s face pushes Villanelle to clarify herself an instant later.

“I mean…I did imagine it, but even I’ve never been that delusional. I never thought anyone would love me for who I am. Let alone you. You were a married woman with a good life when we met.”

Eve nods thoughtfully, chewing her way through a bite of shrimp and pasta before she answers.

“And I burned it all to the ground, didn’t I?” There’s no resentment in her voice. Only truth. She sees it reflected back at her as she stares deep into Villanelle’s hazel eyes. In an odd way, it sometimes feels as if she’s seeing Villanelle for the first time again, some new aspect of Oksana making itself known to her. She’s reminded of that first tense dinner in her kitchen when she saw a flicker of the real Villanelle as she looks at her now. 

“I think I would do the same for you. Even if it meant a life without you.” 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

It’s an ungodly hour by the time Villanelle and Eve stumble onto their porch. Villanelle fumbles for the keys in the dark because they both forgot to leave a light on. She had cut herself off after her second glass, but Eve had gotten just a smidge carried away and was just tipsy enough to drop that lump of dread straight down into Villanelle’s stomach. She knows Eve all too well. Eve is relentless in her quest for knowledge, or really, any sort of quest at all. If she has a goal in mind, she will not let it go. She’s been questioning Villanelle off and on for hours, only kept at bay by Villanelle’s promises of “when we get home”. 

Well, they’re home now. And now Eve has had just enough to drink to encroach on the point of intoxicated where Villanelle knows she’s prone to become combative. She can only hope as they stumble across the threshold into the darkness of the living room that Eve has forgotten. It’s a sensitive enough topic without the alcohol. But really, Villanelle bought the wine. The situation she senses working itself into existence is her own doing.

As she watches Eve in the low light of their lamp stumbling around clumsily to shed her high heels and then turn and look at her with that knowing look in her eye, Villanelle gets that same feeling in her gut that comes with watching looming disaster but being powerless to stop it.

“We’re home.” She grins with inebriation, sidling up close to Villanelle and clutching at the lapels of her blazer. A move the assassin suspects is to keep her from falling flat on her face.

“We are.” Villanelle observes, deciding that maybe Eve will move on from the topic if she plays stupid. Like playing dead to avoid being mauled by a bear. What no one ever says is that the bear still mauls you if you play dead, it just doesn’t kill you. And, like the bear, Eve is relentless.

Villanelle really should have known better by now.

Eve pushes herself off of Villanelle and lets out a sharp breath. A subtle sign of the sharp pang of irritation she feels. Villanelle is being evasive. It worries her to think of all the possibilities why. But right now, she mostly just finds it maddening.

“You promised Villanelle. What are you not telling me?”

“What are you not telling me, Eve?” Villanelle retorts trying to avoid divulging her little afternoon meeting for a moment longer. She regrets it almost immediately, especially when Eve whips around and bores into her with a dangerous look sharper than any knife she’s ever held. She winces under the intensity of it and tries her best to back track.

“That’s…not what I meant.” She breaths, steeling herself for this conversation, hands coming to rest on Eve’s shoulders. When she doesn’t immediately get brushed off, she takes it as a good sign, albeit not for much longer.

“Look…after the job this afternoon I…met someone. A mutual friend of ours.”

“You talked to Carolyn?” Eve interjects bitterly. Nearly two years of pent up resentment bubbling right to the surface at the mere thought of her old boss. Villanelle is careful not to allow it to explode, catching Eve before she can begin to spiral. 

“…She wants me to find Konstantin. The twelve know where he is.”

“And what does that have to do with us?” Eve all but shouts, running her hands through her hair as she starts to pace, stumbling a bit here and there.

“Eve…”

“No! Fuck Carolyn. Fuck Konstantin. It’s not our problem.”

“Eve, you know better than that.” Villanelle reaches out, flinching when Eve dodges her grasp this time. “Even when you’re a little drunk, you’re not stupid. He knows too much. They could find me….find you.” That last part crumbles her resolve and brings the fear she’s kept held in right back to the surface. It terrifies her to admit, but she knows she’d do absolutely anything for Eve’s safety. She’d even go back to the twelve in a heartbeat if she had to. This one little task for Carolyn is really insignificant in the grand scheme of things compared to everything she would do for this woman in front of her.

Eve seems to recognize her fear, and the truth of her words. She stops and bores into Villanelle with glazed over, drunken, but stubborn eyes. It’s a fleeting moment and she goes right back to angry, ready to pull her hair out in frustration again. 

“Fuck!” She shouts out. Stopping every once in a while to let out streams of “you’re not doing it” and “fuck Carolyn!” and “Why now?”

Villanelle watches her rage and pace back and forth from her perch on the couch armrest with wide, concerned eyes. Her stomach is in knots from the guilt and heartbreak she feels from it all. She fears her dinner might wind up on their carpet if her stomach twists too much more. Eventually, the fury is directed at her again after several minutes of this.

“So that’s it? Eight months and you’ll go right back to being a killer for hire?” Eve snaps her fingers, a gesture that’s symbolic of Villanelle’s own rage at the situation being ignited. “Just like that? It’s that easy?”  
Eve scoffs, cruelly. “Nice to know I mean something to you, Villanelle.”

Villanelle snarls, but speaks calmly, stepping up from the couch and circling Eve. 

“But let’s not pretend I’m the only one coming out of retirement, Eve.” Eve looks stunned, as if Villanelle has slapped her across the face again. “I would do anything, work for anyone, if it means keeping you safe.” She intrudes into Eve’s space, backing them both slowly toward the fire place. “But you’ve been tracking the twelve for months now, haven’t you? Did you think I wouldn’t recognize that man you had me watch, earlier?”

Eve gulps and her back hits the brick of the hearth. Villanelle is angry, the heat of her furious expression washes over Eve and positively scorches her skin like fire. Then it makes her feel even more angry and she’s pushing Villanelle away, but Villanelle ignores her.

“Eight months. Eight months we’ve lived like this. Happy. Carefree. If it all goes to shit, if the Twelve find us, will you really lay that blame at my feet? Like it or not, the twelve will always be our problem even if we’ve allowed ourselves to pretend that they don’t exist.”

Eve feels out of body. Like her words and actions aren’t her own in the moments that follow. She just wants Villanelle to stop talking; wants her to stop making sense. And her voice betrays that feeling with a verbal knife to Villanelle’s gut.

“Fuck you, Oksana.” 

And then her feet are carrying her toward the door. She doesn’t know what the fuck she’s thinking in that moment because her mind feels so full of everything. She just wants it all to stop. She wants to go back to an hour ago when it was just the two of them and nothing else mattered. But her words wreak havoc and destruction, and her feet carry her toward the door, not letting her stop and survey the damage she’s done. That will come later. If she hasn’t fucked up too much for there to be a later. The door slamming is a perfect punctuation mark to an awful chain of events, and a perfect emphasis on that chain of thought. 

\-----------------------------------------------------

Eve regrets what she’s done almost as soon as she leaves the house, shoes in hand. She faintly hears Villanelle calling after her for a little bit, but it’s so distant, like a quiet echo carried on the wind. Her mind is racing too hard. Villanelle’s voice gives way to the buzzing of Eve’s phone in her purse, but that, too, goes unanswered. She lets her legs carry her until she finds herself in an upscale hotel bar just a few blocks away from home. She’s not ready to face the mess she’s made just yet.

It’s an elegant, posh lobby with expensive furnishings, and even some antique sconces lighting the path into the main common area. Her heels click on the old marble floor as she makes her way at a brisk pace toward the bar. She’s still got the wine from dinner flowing through her, but God, she needs something stronger.  
The bar tender is an older, gruff looking man. He doesn’t even look up from wiping down his glassware when she has a seat. His only acknowledgment comes from a disinterested “siamo chiusi” as he continues his task. Before Eve can find a retort, someone is sidling up next to her, answering on her behalf while dropping an absurd amount of cash into the tip jar. The stoic bar tender shows his surprise briefly in the way his shocked eyes grow to the approximate size of dinner plates.

“Non vedi che sta passando una notte difficile?”

The woman is dressed in business attire that manages to also be incredibly stylish. She’s oozing confidence from her pointed features and neat, brown hair, down to the tips of her perfect French manicured fingernails and the Jimmy Choos on her feet. Whoever this woman is, Eve is certain that she’s important. Hell, she could own the hotel they are sitting in. She smiles a smug little grin at the befuddled way Eve must be looking at her.  
“Closing time means nothing if you have enough money.” She explains in a thick French accent. And just like that, the most beautiful cocktail Eve has ever seen is being slid in front of her. She has no idea what’s in it, but it’s a tall glass with an orange liquid that’s garnished with a lemon wedge on top. With only a brief hesitation, eve takes the drink, and downs the entire contents in a smooth motion.

“Oh my….” The woman whispers, amused. “You must be having it rough. I’m Diane, by the way.”

Eve shakes her head at the taste of the alcohol mix as it goes down in a heady combination that is sure to come back fighting later, but for now, she turns her attention to the mystery woman. To Diane. 

“I’m Eve.” She stops herself, Polastri is on her tongue, but something about this woman feels a little off. She senses it’s best not to give her too much. Especially after the things that just came to light half an hour ago in her and Villanelle’s living room.

“Eve?” Diane chuckles. “Is that like Cher or do you have a last name?” 

“Astankova.” She answers before she can really think about it, adding “Don’t ask” at the confused expression that settles briefly on Diane’s face.

Another cocktail replaces the one she chugged, and this time she nurses it slowly. They sit in silence for a long stretch of time before Eve eyes her up and down again with a curious expression.

“So…What’s this all about?” She wonders, gesturing clumsily to Diane in general. 

“Excuse me? I’m…not sure I follow.”

“You’re in a hotel bar, in business attire, looking like you own half the city at almost 4 AM. What’s up with that?”

Diane chuckles, taking a sip of whatever it is she’s having. “Even titans of industry have late nights.” And maybe it’s Eve’s imagination, a trick of the alcohol playing tricks on her brain, but she swears she sees a predatory wink directed at her. It unsettles her even more and she wishes again that she hadn’t stormed out on Villanelle the way she did. And right on cue, her phone buzzes in her purse for them both to hear and Eve sighs in frustration, letting it go to voicemail once again. She hasn’t found the words she needs to face Villanelle. Or the courage.

“Is that why you’re here?” Diane asks shrewdly. “Is it a lover’s quarrel.”

“Something like that.” Eve mutters, diving into another glass.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s after six in the morning by the time Eve pushes the front door open. Dawn is just beginning to break, but it’s still just dark enough that she can’t see as she walks into her and Villanelle’s darkened house. The quiet is unsettling. It feels too much like the aftermath of a blood bath. All of her senses tingle, searching in the darkness for any sign of Villanelle. And then she hears the faintest snoring coming from the direction of a chair across the room. 

Villanelle had waited for her.

It tugs at Eve’s heart and makes her feel like an even bigger dick. She never should have shut Villanelle out, never should’ve been so, so ANGRY. But the damage is done. All she can do now is try her best to make it up.

Her hand swipes through empty air when she reaches for the lamp that normally would sit against the wall just where the foyer and the living room converge. She instead finds the light switch with her hand, and gasps with her hand at her mouth as the room comes into view. 

There is broken glass littered all over the tiled floor. The lamp she was searching for earlier sits shattered at the base of the wall near their kitchen. Several other miniscule little trinkets appear to have met a similar fate; victims of Villanelle’s rage. It strikes Eve as she looks around how nothing of significance had been touched. Photos are still in their rightful places. Gifts and other artefacts of their relationship sit unharmed. They are too precious. Too irreplaceable to be destroyed in a moment of fury. And that makes Eve feel even worse. She didn’t know she could feel this bad, now that she does, she can safely say it’s the worst she’s ever felt. To have someone so invested in her, and in their relationship, that she wouldn’t even dare hurt anything related to it in a spiteful rage, and then to know that she’d been so flippantly casual with those feelings.

Again, Eve’s feet are guiding her of their own volition, but this time she’s being pulled toward where Villanelle sleeps curled into a ball in their chair. She always looks so soft and innocent in sleep, accented by the soft little snore and the puffs of breath that displace hair from her forehead. But now, Eve can also make out the hurt; the hopeful way she clings to her phone that has probably long since died even in sleep. Eve brings a hand up to brush the hair away from Villanelle’s face, stroking and stroking until hazel eyes drift open to meet hers. Then, Villanelle springs up before Eve knows what’s happening and she finds herself being utterly enveloped. Her arms slide around Villanelle in turn, she needs her closer. They both need each other closer. Closer than physical possible.  
Time becomes nonsensical again and its just the two of them, swaying as they cling to one another. The clock on the wall ticks the seconds away but neither notices. Villanelle shakes with silent tears in Eve’s arms and it makes Eve’s own eyes well with tears of guilt for the pain she’s caused. Her fingers twine in the loose hairs of Villanelle’s bun and Villanelle squeezes around her middle, face buried in the crook of her neck where hot tears meet her skin.

They need to be closer.

“I’m sorry…” Eve hears Villanelle whispers rhythmically into Eve’s skin, ghosting the apology over her neck over and over again. “I didn’t mean to make you leave.”

At this, Eve takes Villanelle’s shoulders and pushes her back so their eyes meet again. 

“No, Villanelle…don’t apologize. I’m sorry.”

Any other time, the confused way Villanelle’s eyebrows knit together would be adorable. “But Eve, I pushed you too far. It’s my fault you left.” And it breaks Eve’s heart that Villanelle has been conditioned to think that its always her fault when people abandon her.

“I’m sorry Villanelle. I was a bitch last night." She combs a hand through her hair in exasperation at herself, muttering a stray obscenity as the hand returns to hold Villanelle's neck. "Look, we obviously have things to talk about, but we’re both tired.” She pulls Villanelle back to her and feels Villanelle’s hum of agreement deep in her chest, where all of her deepest, purest feelings for Villanelle live. 

Everything else could wait. The world could wait. 

“Hold me, Eve.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> "Siamo chiusi"- We're closed
> 
> "Non vedi che sta passando una notte difficile?” - Can't you see she's having a rough night?


	4. "When Are You Going To Get Over That?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eve and Villanelle receive a surprise visit from an old friend. Later, they find their lives turned upside down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Fede on Twitter for the translations in this chapter!
> 
> Levati- (roughly) fuck off
> 
> Lasciala- leave her
> 
> Non toccarmi- Don't touch me
> 
> By the way, I forgot to mention I have a playlist for this fic. Ashes by Celine Dion is a heavy theme of the later portion of this chapter and much of next chapter.

Ch. 4:

The house is still in the early winter morning. Calm. A stark departure from the tempest which broke loose a couple days prior, and then the whirlwind of emotion that followed as Villanelle and Eve quickly set to work making up for their fight. They hadn’t left the bedroom for most of the last twenty-four hours. Even meals had been eaten in haste before they became consumed in each other all over again. 

And now?

Now they are finally spent. Each one is absolutely dead to the world as they lay carefree and sleeping wrapped up in each other. The only sign of life from either of them is the aggressive snoring from Villanelle. A contrast to her delicate, angelic figure sprawled out protectively across Eve’s bare chest.

It's a picture perfect moment, but it can’t last forever. Like all good things. 

Eve stirs tentatively, her limbs snake out and reach across the matress lazily, shedding themselves of the last vestiges of sleep as she yawns. She’s cautious not to wake Villanelle. She doesn’t want to disturb this moment just yet. It’s identical to so many other times they’ve woken up like this over the months, and yet, each time she wakes to see Villanelle slung across her and snoring with drool clinging to her chin feels just as precious. So novel. She’ll never tire of the domestic tenderness of it.

The snoring stops, and that’s Eve’s first tell that Villanelle is awake, though her eyes aren’t open yet. Eve looks over at her when she doesn’t move after several moments, and has to stifle her own giggle at the way Villanelle looks like she’s fighting not to break into a huge, mischievous grin. 

“Villanelle.” Eve chides, poking her in the ribs right where she knows Villanelle is ticklish. “I know you’re awake. You can’t fool me that easily.”

In response, she receives a comically exaggerated series of snores. Eve’s hand wanders dangerously across Villanelle’s belly to a place where her skin jumps involuntarily at the slightest touch. She feels Villanelle tense with anticipation on top of her, but other than that, she remains motionless. Playing possum.

“If you’re asleep I guess you won’t mind if I do this then.” Eve’s voice drops to a low, dangerous, but playful timbre. Her fingers dig into Villanelle’s sides and suddenly, Villanelle is wide awake and shrieking with surprised mirth on top of her. 

“Eve!!” 

Finding Villanelle’s ticklish spot had been a happy accident a few months into their relationship. One that was born of Eve exploring the landscape around the scar she had left on Villanelle. Since then, she found that she quite enjoyed being able to reduce Villanelle to a screaming, helpless, laughing pile with such ease. It was also a rather jarring foil to the image Villanelle cut of a professional international assassin. Of course, so was everything else Eve knew about her.

Villanelle finally bats Eve’s hands away and uses her weight as leverage to gain control when she rolls fully on top of Eve. The mood shifts and desire settles in between them again as Villanelle’s breath fans across Eve’s lips.  
“That’s not fair, you know.” She husks, her eyes penetrating Eve and leaving her throbbing uncomfortably between her legs. 

“Neither is that.” Eve gasps, speaking of how easy it is for Villanelle to turn her on. As easy as breathing. 

“You’re too easy.” Villanelle chuckles, smug and affectionate. A true asshole. They finally move to close the gap between them and just as their lips graze against each other, they’re rudely interrupted.

“Good morning, everyone.”

It’s Konstantin. He stands at the foot of their bed in his typical black trench coat looking the tiniest bit more tan than the last time Eve and Villanelle saw him. His smile is smug, but familiar as he addresses Villanelle.

“You’ve become sloppy, Villanelle.”

No one moves for an uncomfortably long moment. It takes Villanelle and Eve a second to come down from the high of their arousal. And another second still to process the fact that they’ve been caught naked. By Konstantin.  
Konstantin.

Villanelle is the first of the two to realize the implication. She had been tasked with finding him only two days ago. If he is here then…

“Eve, we really need to have a talk about more security.” Villanelle deadpans, doing an excellent job of hiding how nervous she suddenly feels. She rolls onto her back and leaves Konstantin with an excellent view of Eve’s naked chest, which she is quick to cover.

“Aren’t you going to ask why I’m here?” Konstantin wonders, teasing.

This time Eve sighs, weary and deprived of release. “Konstantin, I’m sure we all have a lot to catch up on, but frankly, we’re naked and I don’t care why you’re here until you can’t see my tits.”

“Fine.” Konstantin relents, stepping out of the bedroom to give them space. He lingers by the doorway for a moment and catches a heated back and forth, most likely about him. He decides to give them complete privacy and wanders off downstairs to explore the cozy villa. He marvels at how domestic, how comfortable, the home feels as he walks past pictures that both of them took at one time or another, and décor that absolutely was picked out by Villanelle. He imagines Eve’s steady hand, picking out a spot for Villanelle’s eccentric purchases and placing them with care upon the walls and on shelves. It’s truly a labor of and testament to the love between two people. Villanelle has craved someone to share things with for as long as he can remember. There was a time he didn’t think it possible…for her or himself. But he’s glad at least one of them has a comfortable life. A family to go home to. 

Villanelle and Eve eventually find Konstantin sitting at the island of their kitchen. He’s helped himself to a banana and the last of Eve’s coffee. The latter causes her to lean over to Villanelle and whisper a half-annoyed joke about picking out a good alarm system. 

Konstantin watches them in this moment. Their casual, intimate banter. Their closeness. He won’t admit it out loud yet, but it’s apparent to him being here, watching them, that he was wrong. They need each other. A bitter echo of “you’re not family” comes from some deep recess of his memory and he chuckles at it. Eve is Villanelle’s family, and he feels glad for that.

There’s an uneasy tension once they all settle into the kitchen. It’s thick with betrayal between Konstantin and the two women across from him, and something else. Both seem a bit on edge, Villanelle more so. Her leg bounces with a pent up, restless energy that she struggles to contain.  
It’s a tiny bit hurtful if he’s being honest.

“I didn’t expect you to roll out the welcome mat, but I thought you’d at least be a little happy to see me.” He deadpans, trying to break the tension. Eve glowers as he drains the last of her coffee from a mug that says “my house, my rules, my coffee” in bold comic sans.

Villanelle regards him with wary skepticism. It’s like watching someone decide how best to approach a venomous snake. Which, again, is something he finds hurtful. But he supposes it’s to be expected given their history.  
“I would be happier if I didn’t know you were being hunted, Konstantin.” Villanelle frets as she spreads cream cheese onto a bagel and offers it to Eve. Eve takes it with an appreciative peck on the lips and takes a seat across from Konstantin. “Tell us you weren’t followed.”

Konstantin makes a show of clutching his chest, exaggerating how wounded his pride feels. “Villanelle! Did I train you to be sloppy? That hurts.”

“Why are you here, then?” Eve cuts through the bullshit. “How are you here? Only one person knows where we are.”  
Konstantin chuckles deviously. He’s still got that way of making Eve’s skin crawl with his cunning, sneaky manner. “I never said you two were easy to find. Like I said, “He trails off and points to Villanelle, “I didn’t train this one to be sloppy. I found you because we have history. Villanelle has a bit of a soft spot for the Mediterranean.”

What follows is a series of comical bickering between Eve and Villanelle about choosing a country to hide in that Konstantin would be able to trace them to. Villanelle makes a dramatic show of things and Eve pretends at being upset. It almost feels like old times. Only, he used to be the one admonishing the former assassin.

“So, how was Cuba?” Villanelle finally turns her attention back to him. The question is asked around a mouth full of Eve’s bagel, which earns her a smack on the shoulder when Eve notices the theft. “You look like you’ve been sunbathing.”

“It was good for a while. Would’ve been better without bumping into people who want me dead.”

“You did steal from them.” Eve points out. “So, why are you here now?” It’s her turn to be distrustful. The Twelve…FSB…any number of people could have Konstantin on a leash at this very moment. 

“You are always so suspicious.” Konstantin snorts, surprised when Villanelle cuts in on her behalf. “In this case she should be.” Her gaze burns through him, reminding him that they did not leave off with each other on the best of terms. Somehow, he had managed to let himself forget that. His words catch in his throat at the intensity of her stare and he swallows thickly, suddenly feeling the courage drain from him like blood oozing slowly from a bullet wound.

Eve interrupts their stare down when she stands to place her dish in the sink, cutting through the tension as she goes. “You know what? I have to get to work. I think its best if you two take some time to talk.” She stoops to drop a kiss on Villanelle’s waiting lips as she moves past her. Villanelle surprises her, making a show of tugging her back and greedily pulling their mouths together until she can hear Konstantin clearing his throat. Eve catches on quick, playfully muttering “dick” under her breath as she heads into the living room. 

“Catch me up later!” wafts through the hall and into the kitchen where Konstantin and Villanelle are left alone with each other.

They sit across from each other enveloped in silence once more. The tension and familiarity stretches out into the space between them the way it always did. Just like old times.

Almost.

Villanelle tenses faintly when Konstantin reaches into his coat and then relaxes when he pulls out a pack of cigarettes. When had it come to this? She used to at least indulge the delusion of feeling comfortable with Konstantin. But now…the man sitting across from her is a stranger. She doesn’t recognize what’s become of him. Or was he always this way? Things had grown too convoluted to tell anymore.

“Don’t light that.” Villanelle speaks sharply, just as the flame of the lighter reaches the tip of his cigarette.  
Konstantin indulges her with a heavy sigh. He’s growing weary of whatever dance it is that they’re doing around one another. 

“What now, Villanelle?”

“Now you answer our questions: Why have you come here? What do you want?”

Konstantin’s eyes shine with genuine hurt as he stares her down. Their relationship is yet another in a long line of disappointments in his life, it seems. How had they grown so distant? When did it happen? Of course, he knew when. The question answers itself in his mind as soon as he asks it. Flashes of abandoning Villanelle to a harsh Moscow prison, a betrayal in Rome, and a slew of other betrayals step forward from the shadows in the halls of his memory.

“I’ll answer if you answer one for me first.”

Villanelle scoffs and Konstantin takes that for as much of an affirmative as he is going to get.

“I thought we were past all this. Why are you so upset with me?”

Villanelle cocks her head to the side as she stares at him. He watches dozens of emotions flicker behind her eyes, but none can seem to take hold long enough for her to form a response. She eventually settles on derisive laughter. Her words harken back to her training days, back when Konstantin was prone to treating her like an inexperienced brat.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” They both smile in spite of themselves at the call back. “You said it yourself. The twelve found you. And we both know you’ve thrown me to the wolves before to save yourself.”

“When are you going to get over that?” They speak in tandem, recalling the same argument from just after Villanelle had been hired to assassinate Eve. Something else from that argument sticks out in his mind too.  
“I was wrong that day.” He laments. “She wasn’t making you weak. I see that now.”

Villanelle nods because it’s true, but she can’t take it for the admission that it is. Not after witnessing what happened between him and Carolyn. Not after knowing that he killed the son of a woman he claimed to love. He reeks of bullshit, and it’s all she can focus on.

“Did you bring the Twelve here?” Villanelle shoves all pleasantries aside. Her voice lowers dangerously and she exudes a protectiveness that Konstantin never would’ve associated with her before. He suddenly feels like he’s stepped into a wolf’s den. This woman across from him bears little resemblance to the calculated killer he trained and every resemblance to an animal who won’t hesitate to rip apart a threat to her pack. 

“Do you think I’m stupid?” Konstantin echoes.

Villanelle hums, pretending to think about that. “No, but I do think you are selfish. You would stab me in the back again to save your own fat neck.”

Konstantin sighs, exhaling shame and remorse. He’s truly only got himself to blame for the predicament he finds himself in. “Things have changed.” And it’s the faraway, distracted look in his eye that makes Villanelle take pause. Even when he was spinning manipulations, he always did it with such intent and focus. It’s then that she finally notices the subtle tremble in his hands that she’s been missing for several minutes in her blind anger. And holy shit, he is different. Still…

“Yeah, they have.” Villanelle sighs in agreement. “I used to be able to trust you even when you were unreliable and treacherous. You were so predictable. You said you loved me once. Do you remember, Konstantin?”

He takes her words in carefully, nodding at her question. He had thought she was going to kill him. He had never felt such a mixture of pride and terror in his life before that moment. And he did love her. Still does. She’s like a daughter to him even if she’ll never believe it. Maybe the only family he has left.

“I do.”

“You loved Carolyn too, but you still pushed her son off of the roof.”

“Yes.” Konstantin admits it for the first time. In an odd way, it feels good to finally be able to say it to someone who understands him even if he still feels like she might kill him at any moment.

“So how can I trust that Eve won’t get hurt like that?”

Oh.

Suddenly everything clicks into place. He’d been analyzing the old Villanelle all while observing the new Villanelle, and finally everything clicks into place and he’s able to fully appreciate who she’s become in his absence. Maybe this is who she’s always been, underneath the machinations and the training of himself, Dasha, and the Twelve.

“You’re a family now.” He acknowledges, getting to the root of her anxiety. He understood her feelings perfectly, the way everything centered on keeping his (ex)wife and daughter safe from the life he led. At least, it should have, but Villanelle was right. He was far too selfish. And it cost him everything. “That’s why I’m here. The Twelve have my daughter.”

“So, you want another favor?” Villanelle assumes, the weariness in her voice feels disconnected from her cheerful facial expression. “Off the record?”

“No, no. Nothing like that.” Konstantin waves her off. “It’s too late for that.” He could blame the twelve all he wanted, but he lost his daughter long before the twelve laid hands on her. “I have something different in mind.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

Villanelle is in prison again. The hole to be more precise. She doesn’t remember it being this awful, but somehow it manages to be worse than it ever was before. The screams from other inmates are enough on their own to drive her mad. Some voices she recognizes, some she doesn’t. Oddly, none are in Russian. Well…a few are. Those screams belong to her family. They seem to grow louder, angrier, more intense the more she tries to drive them out. She often has to curl up with her hands to her ears to get any ounce of peace; if there is any peace to be had in such a place.

The rest of the voices belong to people who are long dead; forgotten names on the post card of some fancy European city. Sometimes she still gets post cards. It’s stupid. How is she meant to kill when the cage she’s confined to has no escape? There are times she wakes up from whatever contorted position the small concrete square masquerading as a bed allows her to find that she’s covered in those incessant post cards. Sometimes they all say the same thing.

“Sorry Baby x”, written in her own large, looped letter font. It’s all very weird. Nothing ever makes sense here.  
But the worst is sometimes she can see Eve through the tiny sliver in the door. Sometimes she’s just standing there, looking back, and sometimes she’s screaming. But always, Villanelle is powerless. Powerless to act. Powerless to protect her. Powerless to get to her on the other side of the door.

It feels like she’s been here for an eternity and time has lost all meaning when the door finally swings open one day….or who knows? This hell could’ve all been one long day for all she knew. But anyway, she feels so eager when it mercifully creaks open, only to be immediately immersed in dread when Helene stands on the other side. She beckons Villanelle like a dog, and well, Villanelle follows, because there’s nothing else she can do. She could try to snap that stupidly long neck. She could smash that beak-like nose into Helene’s brain like she wants to do, but somehow she knows she can’t. 

So she follows.

She follows until they’re standing in a room filled with so much mahogany and more unsettling suits of armor than one could ever want to see. She follows until she sees Eve sitting in the tiny chair. She follows until Eve is dowsed in gasoline and her reluctant fingers hold the match.

And then…

Villanelle finds herself sitting bolt upright in bed. Every nerve she has feels on edge in the aftermath of her nightmare. She lets out a relieved breath when she slowly realizes that she’s in the bedroom she shares with Eve in Florence. Eve’s vintage movie poster for The Wizard of Oz greets her through the darkness. On instinct, she reaches for Eve, but finds that her side of the bed is empty. The silence feels eerie, unsettling. She shoves that feeling aside, dismissing it as a lingering effect of the weird dream she’s just had.

“Eve?” She calls, figuring that Eve might have made a late-night trip to the bathroom. She’s just about to shrug it off and assume that Eve has gone to the kitchen for a snack like she’s prone to do when a flickering, nightmarish, orange glow underneath the door catches her eye. A moment later, the crackling sound of flames greets her ears.

“Eve!” 

Villanelle feels like she levitates off of the bed in sheer panic. Her pulse is racing in her ears and she’s shaking all over as she stumbles in the darkness to find shoes. She stands at the doorway and deliberates about opening it for several seconds. Too loo long, probably. Her training quickly reminds her that this is a terrible idea and she instead finds herself climbing down the balcony. Her hands crack and bleed from the friction and the roughness of the vines she uses to ease her descent, but none of that matters. Her only goal is Eve.

She’s horrified as she crosses the front lawn to realize that most of the house is utterly engulfed in monstrous, cruel, hellish flames. The front windows are already popping and shattering from the heat as she makes her way to the door. Memories of the fire she started in Gryzmet linger at the edges of her mind and she half-heartedly wonders if any of her family survived long enough to feel the sheer terror that she does right now. If she believed in karmic retribution, she might say that this is the universe giving her what she deserves.

But none of that matters. Her only thought is for Eve.

She calls desperately for Eve as she ventures blindly into the house and positively vibrates with relief when Eve answers. And she likes games, but they’re playing the most twisted, terrifying version of Marco Polo imaginable. The fear threatens to swallow her whole every time Eve’s reply sounds more faint, and less conscious. It’s as if Villanelle can actually hear the life draining from her. It only spurs her harder to find Eve.

She ignores the burning in her own lungs, the way each step feels heavier than the last. None of it matters. She can’t let herself stop until she knows that Eve is safe, so she pushes forward through the thickness. The smoke is like a black fog, clinging to her burning lungs and obscuring her vision. The smell is unbearable and it’s like the flames laugh at her. The house seems to groan out a macabre death rattle and it all makes her feel like she’s walking through some twisted carnival funhouse where everything inside is made far worse than it normally would be.

The walls that once brought comfort now bring danger. Every possession that they’ve tenderly and painstakingly collected together over the past eight months becomes fuel for fire that threatens to engulf them. She feels the vague sting of tears against her cheeks with the loss of their home, but mourning will have to wait until they’re not dead.  
Villanelle feels like her lungs burn forever. The weight of Eve slung across her shoulder feels almost non-existent next to the fire and smoke that sear inside her chest with every breath. 

She doesn’t even know how she makes it out of the hellscape their home has become, but the second she steps into the cool, welcoming, merciful air of the night, she lets go. She lays Eve down gently on the grass and collapses into a coughing, hacking heap. The smoke is still everywhere. It clings to her clothes, her hair, the inside of her nostrils, her eyes, and her lungs. It’s a terrible, persistent reminder that this isn’t some morbid, persistent, reminder. Though, she wishes more than anything that it was.

Then, there is someone pawing at her, trying to pull her off the ground. Trying to pull her away from Eve, who is stirring at her side, and just starting to call her name again.

She’s not ready to be pulled away.

“No!” She roars harshly, first in English and then Italian, before a string of obscenities follow.

“Levati!” She shouts, elbowing the medics who try to separate them, nuding her way closer. “Lasciala!” There are medics swarming around Eve with supplemental oxygen and Villanelle is beside herself with the need to protect, to be close. She bats the medics away from her again, shouting, “Non toccarmi! Eve!”

Finally, she relents and allows the medics to work. She stands with her hands gripping the sides of her head and breathing coming out in ragged spurts. Then she feels her knees go weak. The Earth itself seems to fall out from under her and she finds herself kneeling in the grass again when she catches sight of the still burning, charred, husk of their home. 

She’s overjoyed that Eve is safe. Eve was most important. Villanelle could endure anything as long as Eve made it through, too. But the pain she feels is unimaginable. It’s unlike anything else she’s experienced before and she knows now that the scars from this night will run deep. It all feels like too much to process and she finds herself pounding her fists into the grassy earth.


	5. "Let Me Take Care of You"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eve and Villanelle regroup after the fire and begin to rebuild from the ashes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there's not a lot that happens plot-wise in this chapter. I really just kind of wanted it to feel like Villanelle and Eve were alone together for a whole chapter without the distraction of other elements. We'll get back to plot next chapter. And oh, the ride is gonna be bumpy from here on out!

Chapter 5: Let Me Take Care of You

The silence stretches on forever.

Once the medics are satisfied and arms have been twisted to keep the reports on the fire strictly off record, Eve lets herself be led. It feels weird to be back here again with Villanelle; walking aimlessly down the street, hand in hand, homeless. This time is different. That last time after the bridge, they both set out eagerly into the horizon with the shared hope of a life together. Now, they walk on shaky legs that only keep them upright by the grace of the adrenaline still coursing through them both.

The shared memory of that life they imagined months ago being ripped away in the course of a few short, terrifying minutes is seared into their brains as permanently as the scars they’ve marked each other with.  
It sobers and shocks them both into complete silence. Eve spares a sideways glance at Villanelle and finds her staring at the side walk with a wide-eyed, haunted expression. She looks how Eve feels inside. Her guts have twisted into an impossible knot that she fears might never come undone and her throat tingles with bile that threatens to rise at any moment. She doesn’t have to wonder when she sees Villanelle’s face if that’s how Villanelle feels. 

It's okay to feel weird.

That’s what Villanelle had said after she ripped Raymond apart with an axe. She doesn’t know why that comes back to her now. Why she sees the way bloodied pieces of him flew off with each swing of the axe. Why she feels the force of the axe in her hands again. But she chases it and chases it in her mind until that’s all she can think about. The way it felt to plunge a knife into Villanelle, and then to feel the warm, sticky blood pour out onto her hands. Dasha’s chest yielding underneath her boot as if it were nothing more than a dead, crunchy fall leaf on the ground.

It’s okay to feel weird.

And yet, how she feels now is so much worse. There was something about indulging a violent nature that made Eve feel in control at times when she felt like she had none. She felt guilty, sickened even after stabbing Villanelle. After hacking Raymond to bits. But she had felt in control; alive even. Invigorated.

Now she feels alive in a more grateful sense, but the lack of control she feels backing her into the corner makes it hard to breathe all over again.

They finally come to a stop outside of a nondescript, out of the way hostel after it feels like they’ve walked for five hundred years. The adrenaline is wearing off and they both need a place to collapse. More than that, they need a place to rinse off the vestiges of their shared trauma. They’re both covered head to toe in ash and the acrid smell of smoke clinging to their clothes gives them away before they even set foot in the lobby. There’s a brief exchange with the receptionist, who gives them a sympathetic look and discreetly slides over some money with their room key. Villanelle looks affronted by the gesture but Eve hurries them along, too tired to make a scene. 

The silence finally breaks when they make it to the hotel room. 

They take a moment to look around and acclimate to their new surroundings. The bed is a queen with modest, but clean bedspreads, sheets, and linens. The carpet is a dull, gray, boring pattern typical of any number of chain hotels catering to tourists. The drapes match the carpet and are just as cliché. The room has all of the essentials: a small fridge, a bathroom, a tv, and even a computer. Villanelle’s first instinct is to head toward the outlet to charge her phone, but then she remembers she doesn’t have it. Neither of them have anything but each other and the filthy, smelly clothes that cling to their backs. She would do something about the clothes later. She had managed to stash away a sizeable amount of her wealth after cutting ties with the Twelve. But all that could wait until the ground feels like it’s underneath them again.

“Why don’t you…” Eve tries at a tentative sentence, testing how best to navigate the unbearable silence between them. Immediately, Villanelle’s full attention is on her; alert and patient. Her face still looks pale and haunted and it makes Eve sick all over again. “Why don’t you get showered? You must feel more exhausted than I do.” Eve wasn’t even conscious for a large part of their ordeal. She can’t imagine how Villanelle must feel right now after literally scaling their house and crawling through hell with Eve’s weight on her back. It’s only right that Eve lets her go first. 

Naturally, she’s met with resistance. Villanelle comes to life with more energy since she’s had since they started their walk; spurred to life by her constant chivalrous compulsion to acquiesce to Eve’s needs. 

“Eve no…”Villanelle insists, standing from the couch and holding her by the shoulders. “You take it.” Her hands sting as they brush against Eve’s shirt and Eve takes one of them between her palms, as if she can feel the pain that radiates up Villanelle’s fingers for herself. She feels the roughness of the gash even through the bandages on Villanelle’s hand. She imagines how it looked before the medics got to it. Deep and caked over with dried blood. Villanelle watches intently as Eve examines her hand like maybe it’ll make tonight make sense for them if she studies it long enough. The tears brim at Eve’s eyes again and she’s kissing Villanelle’s bandaged palm and holding it to her cheek. Eve’s eyes get caught in bottomless hazel that stares back at her. She finds her own deep pain reflected back at her until Villanelle can’t stand to hold their gaze any longer. It’s far too tender and raw.

Her eyes are watery as they glide up to rest on Eve’s hair and she lets out a deep sigh.

“Your hair should not be covered in smoke like this. You should not be.”

Eve’s eyes slide shut as she allows herself a moment of respite to be immersed in Villanelle’s touch. Villanelle has always touched her like she is a precious treasure, even when she once sought to possess Eve. And she does now, as she slides stray hair behind Eve’s ear. It’s more intense than any other touch she’s come to know. There’s so much fear and protection behind it. Eve’s temper rears like an untamed horse, begs at her to lash out and rage at how tender this small moment is. At how unfair the last few hours have been. At anything, but then she opens her eyes again and there’s Villanelle, watching her with the purest understanding she’s ever seen. Then she feels the anger ebb as quickly as it came. 

The last thing Villanelle deserved was to be on the wrong end of an outburst.

“I’ll go.” Eve nods, feeling her legs tremble beneath her.

“Good.” Villanelle makes a passable attempt at a smile. “I need to take care of some things. I’ll be back soon.”

\---------------------------

Eve tries to take a bath, she really does, but once Villanelle leaves, she is finally left completely alone with her own thoughts. Completely alone to process what the fuck just happened. She feels adrift in a churning sea without a safety net. Just acknowledging that they lost their home makes her need a drink. She gets lost in the fridge for a while and emerges with small bottles of Chardonnay. Her restless legs and mind can’t seem to let her settle on the couch and she abandons that wine after a few bottles. She makes it as far as sitting on the toilet lid with the water running down the drain before the memories catch up to her. The last thing she really remembers is foraging in the kitchen. The fire had sparked and engulfed the house with terrifying speed. If Villanelle had woken up just a few seconds later…

She shudders to think of that.

It’s the last thing she needs to think about with that eerie wall of orange, the acrid black smoke, and crackling flames etched into her mind. She can only sit and stare at her shaky hands as the bath water continues to surge down the drain.

She hears the muffled sound of her name and thinks maybe she’s reliving another part of the fire, but then Villanelle is with her again.

She steps into the bathroom, taking in the abandoned running faucet and Eve sitting on the toilet seat and trembling. Her heart clenches in her chest yet again and she’s kneeling in front of Eve, holding her hands, and looking up at her with understanding and concern.

“I’m shaky too.” Villanelle says, holding out her own trembling hand for Eve to see, as if Eve wouldn’t have believed her. Eve actually laughs at that for some ridiculous reason. It lifts Villanelle’s spirits a bit until the laughter turns into tears. 

“Hey, come here.” Villanelle speaks softly, standing up and placing the stopper in the tub, testing the water as she does. Eve follows, shedding herself of those ruined clothes. She doesn’t have any others to wear but she can’t bring herself to worry about that right now.

Villanelle doesn’t waste any time stripping herself of her own ashen clothes and slides down into the bath. Eve doesn’t waste any time waiting to follow her. The water is hot, almost scorching, but it feels absolutely heavenly. The grime peels from their skin when they sit as if it’s another layer of skin being shed. It seems to soak all the way through to their very souls, washing away the muck of “what next? How do we move on from this?” Eve allows herself to feel as close to peaceful as she’s able to be at the moment, and Villanelle allows the same. She basks in Eve’s warmth and wraps her arms around her to bring them closer. They’re safe and that’s all that matters.  
Villanelle’s lips find the top of Eve’s head and then her nose follows, burrowing into the dirty, tangled mass.

“I can hear you thinking.” Eve says.

And Villanelle’s breath exhales on a sad chuckle against her hair.

“That’s my line.”

“I’m just using it.” Eve relaxes further into Villanelle’s grasp, letting the world outside of the bath tub slowly fall away from the two of them. “Penny for your thoughts?”

There’s a pregnant silence that follows. Eve can hear the gears inside Villanelle’s mind clanking…clanking…clanking while she considers which of her racing thoughts to grab onto and pull out into the bathroom with them.

“I’m just thinking…I should feel worse, shouldn’t I?” Her entire home went up in flames. Every possession she had was gone in the blink of an eye. But she’s been through all that before. Before Eve, she never really had a permanent home. She had a vast collection of possessions, but nothing ever really felt like hers. She always had to be ready to drop everything and skip town on a moments notice, so she never really grew attached to any place or anything. They were just luxuries that took up some empty space inside of her that she didn’t realize she had for the longest time. And she already knew before tonight that Eve was her whole world. Her family. Her home.  
But she almost lost her. It leaves her feeling a bit off-kilter to realize how quickly she ran, against every bit of training she had, back into danger for the first person in her life worth keeping.

“What do you mean?” Villanelle doesn’t even have to see Eve’s face to know she’s got the most curious expression plastered on her face. That face that was solidly bolted to the forefront of the assassin’s mind during the worst experience of their lives.

Again, silence as Villanelle tries to find exactly the right way to give voice to this new feeling she’s discovered, which has only teased her in the past before running off into the distance and slipping into obscurity as easily as she does, herself.

“We lost our home, Eve.” There’s an epiphany in her quiet tone, like saying the words out loud just now makes her fully recognize the gravity of them. “So why do I mostly feel relieved?”

“Because we’re alive.” Eve shrugs. She feels it too, knows what she would become if Villanelle died before her. If they could go back and have the night on the Tower Bridge to do all over again, neither would entertain the notion of walking away for even a moment. They’ve become too intertwined. One hand of fate guiding two people side by side down the same winding road.

“Because you’re alive.” Villanelle corrects, getting the last word in per usual. She’s thankful that Eve can’t see the mess of emotions that her face surely gives away. She wants to keep those to herself for a little while longer.  
“Now,” Her hands trail up and find curly, matted, hair. “Let’s do something about that hair.” 

She finds the tiny hotel shampoo bottles in the alcove of the tiled wall next to the tub and sets to work. It’s just cheap hotel shampoo, but the way Villanelle works the lather into her scalp has never felt more luxurious than it does at this moment. She can’t help but sigh out into the space around them; a release of baggage. The fire. The twelve. Her darkness. Villanelle’s darkness. MI6. Carolyn. It’s like Villanelle is doing her best to knead all the stress away. But Eve senses that she’s merely taking it and placing it onto her own shoulders, and as strong as they are, they’re bound to buckle under the weight eventually.

“Villanelle…” Eve breaths out on a dreamy, content sigh. “When will you take care of yourself?” She knows Villanelle’s body must ache and her hands must sting horribly. She must be on the verge of collapse, yet still pressing forward for Eve’s sake.

“I could never be selfish with you, Eve.” Villanelle’s face burrows into Eve’s wet hair, and then past it to find her neck. It’s there that Villanelle discovers that the scent of their home still lingers on Eve. Or maybe Eve had always smelled like home and Villanelle had simply learned to associate it with the house they lived in. She was too exhausted for such questions.

They bathe each other.

Together they cleanse one another physically—and—emotionally of this horrible night in ways neither ever imagined hotel toiletry samples could. Then after, when the water drains and carries the awful grime of shattered bliss with it down to some forgotten depths beneath the city, they huddle together underneath the same large towel. They rest like that for some time, content to simply find comfort in each other’s presence as their foreheads press together and their breaths become one.

“Let me look at them.” Eve says when she catches Villanelle inspecting her hands. 

They found basic white robes in the hotel room closet to dress in after their bath. Both of them felt cleaner than they had in ages. At least in a physical sense. Emotionally, they were both still shaken, alternating between serious discussion, heartfelt caresses, and humor to lighten the mood. Neither could sleep because they both felt too on edge; afraid that any moment they would start to see smoke sifting beneath the crack of the door or flames licking at the air vent.

Villanelle insists more fervently than usual on holding Eve to her as they settle to watch some mindless tv. Eve insists on letting her.

Eventually, Villanelle wanders off into the bathroom and that’s how Eve finds her standing in front of the mirror and taking stock of her injured hands.

Villanelle doesn’t make a move to acknowledge Eve’s request so she steps into the room and repeats herself more firmly while gently taking Villanelle’s hands in her own. 

“Let me see.”

“I’ve had worse, Eve.” Villanelle waves her off. A knowing smile plays at her lips and, right on time, there’s the ghost of Paris. It playfully dances between them know; something that they can look back on fondly through the rose-tinted glasses of time and growth. Eve smiles in return, but presses on, taking one of Villanelle’s unwrapped hands in her own. 

“Please, Vil…You’ve done so much. Let me take care of you now.”

With a sigh, Villanelle relents to Eve. She always does. Her shoulders slump in surrender and she allows Eve to examine her hands without the obstruction of dressings on them. Eve gasps when she sees the deep twin gashes that run across both palms. They’re angry and enflamed. No doubt protesting still from the dust and smoke they were exposed to. Villanelle’s entire palms are an irritated blush red color that stems out from the deep crimson of her bloody wounds. Suddenly Eve feels nervous as she eyes the first aid supplies strewn across the counter with quiet trepidation. The most she’s had to deal with was the occasional bad cut Niko would get from shaving. She would have to treat his cuts because he always seemed to faint at the sight of blood.

Villanelle’s hands tremble against the tender hold Eve has on them. This is really the first time they’ve been in this situation, miraculous as it seems to her. Eve suspects that Villanelle has never had anyone properly care for her like this. And she had seen the scars; she knows there were many nights spent in random bathrooms doing first aid with an assortment of whatever happened to be on hand at the time.

Oh, how she wishes she could go back in time to any one of those occasions and heal Oksana. Hold her and make her feel cared for instead of used and thrown away like an instrument of destruction. But she’s here now.

Eve grabs the peroxide and dabs it onto a cotton pad. Her eyes flicker between the gash of Villanelle’s left hand and Villanelle’s eyes as if to say “Is this okay? Can I do this?” one more time. Villanelle just nods. She stifles a hiss at the contact of peroxide against her festering wound, but then the pain gives way to tenderness and she’s left in awe as she watches how slowly and deliberately Eve works. She can feel the care radiating through Eve’s touch and that neglected person she used to be before Eve positively aches at how beautiful it is.

She could’ve lost this, she thinks. It hammers in her mind and swells inside her chest over and over again as she watches Eve. The knowledge of what could’ve been builds and builds until it spills over and the moment the last bandage is wrapped, Eve finds herself engulfed in Villanelle. Eve clings back just as fiercely, hands tangled in Villanelle’s bun and pulling as close as she possibly can. Space isn’t a concept that matters in that moment.   
They stand wrapped up like that, shaking in each other’s arms, but secure in comfort of their closeness. Eve’s head comes to rest against the warmth of Villanelle’s chest as she sways them ever so softly and kisses Eve’s newly cleaned hair for what must be the thousandth time that night. The steady thump…thump…thump of Villanelle’s heart beat under her ear along with the soothing warmth of their embrace finally lulls Eve into a sense of comfort she’s been chasing all night. That feeling reaches out to pull her from where she’s been adrift in a rushing current of her anxieties and bring her to the safety of the present. She pulls back to find Villanelle looking back at her through a watery gaze and knows that she feels it too.

Safety.

They very nearly lost each other. That’s a fact that they reflect back to each other in the intensity of their held expression. And now, with every immediate need taken care of, all they have left is each other.

No one could say who moves first, but their mouths crash together somewhere in between. They’re both kissing and prodding their way into each other’s mouths like they’re desperate for the only drink of water on a sojourn through the desert. And when their tongues find each other, they both let themselves go and finally allow the tension in their bodies to relax completely. Eve moans into their desperate kiss and Villanelle is all too eager to swallow it up as she responds in kind.

Their hands are everywhere: Faces, hips, hair, arms. Finally, Villanelle’s settle at Eve’s hips to pull her impossibly close. They’re as close as they can be and still it isn’t enough for either of them. 

The only coherent thought Eve can conjure is “take me to bed”, but it never quite manages to materialize on her lips. But soon, she feels the backs of her knees bumping into something and realizes, as Villanelle lays her down with the utmost care, that they had been backing toward the bed. 

They share a chuckle and then Villanelle is hovering over her, close but not close enough, watching her with a pensive expression.

“What are you thinking about, now, Eve?” She teases.

“I was just thinking I hope you never stop reading my mind.” Eve’s hands tangle themselves into the pristine perfection that is Villanelle’s hair and she tugs them back together again. They had no more use for words tonight.  
Villanelle breaks their kiss in favor of trailing down Eve’s body, disrobing her as she goes. She blazes a leisurely path with her lips and tongue down the length of Eve’s torso, whispering the occasional tender words in a mix of languages into the soft skin. It’s like she’s hoping to tattoo her touch and her words onto Eve’s very body. Eve’s used to Villanelle’s affectionate devotion, but the way she’s taking her time now is…something else entirely. It’s relief. It’s appreciation. It’s gratitude that she still has Eve with her. Eve sighs at the epiphany.

“Don’t do that.” Eve admonishes softly, and Villanelle stops immediately in her tracks, meeting Eve’s gaze with concern and maybe a tinge of pain.

“Do what?” 

Eve props herself up on her elbows so that she can look at Villanelle properly. And God, she’s so close to where Eve needs her most. It would be easy to just let her continue until neither can form proper thoughts anymore. But she sighs again when she realizes something important.

“You’re neglecting yourself again, Oksana.” Eve caresses her face the way she always does when Villanelle’s emotions are a thunderstorm and she needs a lightning rod to latch onto. “I told you. Let me take care of you.”  
Villanelle pulls herself back up Eve’s body and crashes their lips together again in appreciation for this wonderful being she’s lucky enough to call hers. And then she lets Eve push her onto her back. She lets Eve slip the robe off of her shoulders and into the floor. And she lets Eve chase away the looming dread monsters from her mind until all that’s left is warmth and relief. And when she comes undone under Eve’s tongue, she latches onto Eve like a lifeline. Eve does the same in return.

After, they finally manage to fall asleep in the safety of each other’s arms. They’re homeless and they have nothing but each other, but they are so wonderfully alive. 

That knowledge alone wards off any nightmares that could’ve threatened them once sleep finally came.

\---------------------------

The next morning, Villanelle is the first to wake. Eve knows this because she gives up her battle with the sun shining through the windows and eventually, reluctantly, rouses from sleep to find the other side of the bed empty. Panic flares and memories of the fire rush back to her before her eyes land on the second most glorious sight imaginable. On the small dining table near the foot of the bed, there are clothes and a simple pre-paid phone. The note next to them catches Eve’s attention with its loopy scrawl.

“Out to get breakfast. These are for you.”

She picks up the clothes to examine the selection Villanelle left for her. Her mouth drops open when she realizes it’s a black turtle neck and slacks combo that could’ve come from their own closet. She leaves the outfit on the table and goes back to the bathroom to take care of her morning routine. The dirty bandages from the previous night still sit on the counter and Eve regards them bitterly. She hates what they represent. And in turn, she loathes the constant reminder Villanelle’s injuries serve that what happened was very, very real. Too real.

They had known on the bridge that safety together was never a guarantee. And yet they’d both allowed themselves to fall into the trappings of complacency. 

As Eve finishes brushing her teeth, she takes one passive aggressive motion and violently chucks the bandages into the trash bin.

The door opens a few moments later just as Eve is pulling her turtleneck down and she smells coffee before she sees Villanelle step into her view.

“Oh, you brought coffee! Bless you!” Eve takes the cup from Villanelle, who is dressed in a simple t-shirt and running shorts with her tennis shoes. She’s got several paper bags slung over her shoulder with one hand. Eve’s growling stomach offers the loud hope that one of them is breakfast.

“Good morning, Eve. I am here too.” Villanelle jokes at Eve’s rudeness, and Eve placates her with a brief kiss before directing her attention to the bags.

“What’s all this? And where did you get clothes? When did you get clothes?”

Villanelle grins slyly, looking pleased with herself. “Last night. You remember I stepped out while you were in the bathroom? I made a few arrangements with the front desk.”

“This looks like more than a few.” Eve eyes the bags with wonder. Her stomach growls again and Villanelle chuckles, offering her one of the bags. 

Eve could kiss her for being so absolutely thoughtful. So she does. Her lips catch Villanelle's in a grateful exchange and linger their until she feels that wretched bandage brush against her elbow and they break apart, breathless. 

With that, Villanelle sets the bags down and directs her attention toward the bathroom. She leaves Eve to tear into brioche and eggs with an uncharacteristic, ravenous hunger. 

She emerges after a while looking just as fresh as Eve does. No one would look at them and know the trauma that’s still so raw for them. Eve looks up from her empty breakfast container and sees what Villanelle has on. It’s a sheer black dress with vague, puffy accents around the shoulders and lacy embroidery along the torso and skirt. In Eve’s mind, she imagines that Villanelle looks as if she’s time traveled from a Victorian funeral. She’s even wearing dark make up and a small veil that’s nearly identical to the one Eve last saw her in. And then it hits Eve.

‘I’m about to be in mourning.’

She remembers those words, and the way Villanelle wore black for more than a week after their night on the bridge when her relationship with Konstantin, but mostly her old life, was finally severed. She had been grieving through her wardrobe then and she is now. Without words, she’s telling Eve just how deep her sorrow runs, and then it hits Eve too. But of all the things they’ve lost, of all the weird things she could fixate on, it’s Villanelle’s sizeable designer wardrobe which took up most of their closet space.

Eve thinks of her favorite suit that Villanelle had worn only a few nights ago, and she just loses it. She doesn’t know whether to laugh at the absurdity of her thoughts or cry at what they’ve lost, so she does both. Villanelle stands frozen and alarmed for the display as Eve alternates between sobs and laughter and tears run down her face.

“…Are you okay?” Villanelle asks, treading carefully. This is an entirely new and unfamiliar side of Eve and she doesn’t quite know how to handle it.

“No!” Eve howls with laughter only to fall into a fit of sobbing by the end. 

This goes on for some time until, red-faced, breathless, and teary, Eve finally offers an explanation to Villanelle.

“It’s just…” She pauses, not quite knowing how to express herself without sounding utterly ridiculous. 

“Just?” Villanelle prods, trailing a tender hand down Eve’s arm, willing her to meet her eyes.

“I’m um…I’m really gonna miss your suits.” Eve finally whispers, feeling bashful. Villanelle lets out a bark of laughter and wraps her arms around Eve, feeling relief consume them once again.

“Me too. I’ll buy more. I promise.”


	6. "I Deserve That"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some information about the fire does not bode well for Villanelle and Eve. Villanelle seeks out Konstantin for answers. Elsewhere, Irina gets promoted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I initially planned for more to happen in this chapter, but the arc we're entering is proving incredibly cumbersome. So, this chapter serves as part one of a two, possibly even three, chapter story arc.

Chapter 6: I Deserve That

“What are you doing?” Irina asks.

After days of travelling all across Europe, she and Dimitri have come to a stop for a moment in a sleepy little area just on the outskirts of Rome. The accommodations are cramped, but comfortable. Irina even managed to find an interesting book on forensic pathology. She had busied herself with flipping through pages on mental illness and the correlation to crime while Dimitri excused himself to take a phone call. He had returned in…different spirits…to say the least, and Irina let out a protest at the way her hands were suddenly being ripped away from her book and her wrists bound with lengths of cord.

“Shut up.” Dimitri commands with an unusual hardness as he wraps the cord two, three, four times before tying a neat knot.

Whatever this is, Irina senses she’s not in real danger so she pokes the bear a bit.

“I thought you said you like men.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” He flusters, as he finishes his work, “I just need to stage a hostage situation.”

And suddenly Irina is looking up at him with a curious, raised eyebrow. “Why?”

“Nevermind why.” He picks up a length of clothe and holds it down in front of her face. “Here. Bite down.” Irina does as instructed and mumbles something that he’s sure is a jab that gets lost in the fabric between her teeth. As if he understood her, he holds up the book with a smirk. “You can go back to your reading in just a moment.” And then he’s holding up his phone to take a photo. “Now, look like you’ve got a gun pointed at you.”

Irina’s annoyed expression remains the same. It’s clear now what’s going on and he should really know her better by now. She releases the cloth just enough to be able to speak.

“You’re sending this to my dad, aren’t you?"

Dimitri deflates with a drawn-out sigh at that question, lowering his phone and resigning himself to their little game of questions that she enjoyed so much. She's one of the most precocious people he's ever met with her endless curiosity and search for answers. “And if I am?”

Irina makes a show of rolling her eyes, as if he’s missing the most obvious detail in the world. And he is, in a sense.

“He knows I don’t get frightened easily. I’m not some toddler. He’ll see through it in a minute if you have me look like some helpless damsel.”

Dimitri ponders for a moment, considering that maybe she does have a point. Then he replaces the cloth back into her mouth and raises the phone again. “Alright. So how would you look?”

And her face remains unchanged. Stoic and maybe just the tiniest bit annoyed. He lets out yet another sigh and the camera snaps. Irina spits the cloth out impatiently.

“Can I go back to my book now?” She holds her bound hands out, eager for them to be freed.

“Not just yet.” He says, freeing her hands. He holds up the book and takes a second to scrutinize the cover. 

“Interesting choice, by the way.”

She watches as he places the book down next to her and fishes around in his breast pocket and pulls out a post card. Great. More supervised field trips.

Except….

“You’ve been given a job. The higher ups were rather impressed with your recent work.” Irina takes the post card away. But just the feel of it changes in her hands as the words sink in, as if he’s handed her a golden ticket to the chocolate factory. She turns it over and finds that it says “Brussels” in large bold letters on the front side.

“Do you mean…” She hasn’t dared to entertain the hope of being off of the leash. In truth, she knows she might never be let off of the leash again. But being able to work on her own, without a glorified nanny? She feels herself thrum with excitement just thinking about it.

“It’s time to take your training wheels off.” If she weren’t so fixated on the post card in her hands, she’d see Dimitri looking down at her proudly, like a teacher and his prize pupil.

“So, what happens now?” Irina manages to ask through her disbelief. She vaguely registers Dimitri’s weight sinking into the couch next to her.

“Now, you go to Brussels.”

“After that.” She clarifies at his confused tone. “Obviously we aren’t going to live together permanently. At least, I assume not. I don’t know how this works.”

He chuckles at that. She’s always thinking steps ahead. It’s the quality that tempers her impulsive nature and promises to mould her into an exceptional asset. “Go to Brussels. Once you finish the job, you’ll be set up with an apartment. Anywhere you like. And if you impress the bosses, there will be a nice bonus in your payment.”

“I have a job of my own to take care of.” He mimes zipping his lips to convey that it is a secret mission of sorts.  
Irina chuckles at that, looking more upbeat than perhaps the entire time he’s known her. It surprises him a bit. He’d resigned himself to her being perpetually broody. Independence, or at least the illusion of it, becomes her. He supposes that as exceptional and unlike teenagers her age as she is, she’s still beholden to that basic adolescent drive for freedom from stifling authoritarian structures.

“And here I thought you were meeting your boyfriend.” Another surprise. He keeps his professional and personal lives impeccably separated. The only mention he’s made to her of his love life was the day they met. Realization hits him like a bolt of lightning followed by a deep pride. She had found an opening in his guard to snoop into his privacy without detection.

“Who says I can’t multi-task?” He stands and ruffles her hair, drawing an irritated groan as it usually does.

“I’ll meet you after you’ve completed your job. For today, rest up. Relax. For tomorrow, prepare well.” He smiles and she rolls her eyes again. Sometimes it seems like she pretends to hate him more than she actually does.

“Whatever.”

\----------------------------------------------------------

The atmosphere between them is tense. Too tense. The hair is heavy like smog with so many unanswered questions. So many worries. It feels like they’ve gone back to square one; back to those first days after the bridge of constantly looking over their shoulders for someone who wants to kill them. Except the ghost of the twelve feels less like a ghost now, and more like an inevitability. A looming threat to be dealt with before it can come crashing down on their heads. 

They don’t even know what caused their house to burn down, but the mere suspicion is enough to rouse old paranoia. Heighten senses. Leave them both alert and watchful for anything unusual. 

Villanelle, in particular, seems to ooze a nervous energy. She can’t seem to sit still longer than a few moments at a time and pulls herself away from whatever crappy movie is on pay per view in favor of peeking through the peep hole of the door, checking her weapons, or looking down at the street below through the blinds while Eve broods in silence trying to forget their circumstances and focus on literally anything else. Villanelle is so deep into her own head and her own well-trained vigilance that she doesn’t even comment when Eve starts burning through the pack of cigarettes she’d managed to find while snooping through furniture drawers. She also found a pair of fuzzy hand cuffs, some old candy, and used condom which Villanelle had thrown away with a fork from breakfast while ranting about low-quality hotels. 

But none of that mattered.

All that matters is their safety. And once the heady rush of survival and relief give way, that truth is all they’re left with. It eats at them both from the inside out like some sort of parasite.

Eve’s thoughts lead her down a long and twisting path that matches the thin spiral of smoke from her cigarette. It winds and winds until she lands on something from her childhood; a distant echo of a memory so faint she can’t quite be sure if it’s real. She remembers a week spent in bed with the chicken pox. Back before the days when people had a television in every room. She had grown bored of reading through her spy novels, and instead, began to watch from her window as the neighbor boys played in the street. 

Usually, they favored tag or street hockey. But one morning, a tall lanky twelve-year-old from up the street came to the group flailing with excitement as if he had just discovered the holy grail. Eve recalls how she’d looked on with curiosity as he carefully unwrapped a bundle of fire crackers from inside of a satchel. She had become enthralled as the boys strategically placed several into a few trees. A few pops later and she was watching entire communities of birds and squirrels flee their homes in abject terror. 

Perhaps, in hindsight, that was the earliest inkling she had that she was not like others. Most would empathize with the animals. She found herself wanting to be them; wanting to chase that feeling of terror, that sense of danger, and see how it made her feel more alive.

And now she knows exactly how it feels.

She feels thrilled and so utterly alive, more alive than she has in years. But she feels disgusted too.   
She’s disgusted at what she almost lost…what she did lose. And she’s utterly disgusted with her brain for making her feel anything remotely in the realm of good about what happened. And most of all, like the animals that scurried around confused and scared so long ago, she just wants her home back. Wants their home back. 

There’s a knock at the door that breaks through the murkiness inside her mind and brings her back to the present.  
Right on cue, Villanelle reaches for the gun on the table and holds it behind her back, staring in hesitation for a moment too long. There’s another knock, more impatient this time and Villanelle goes to open the door with caution.

Eve finally lets the tension in her shoulders sail away on an exhale when she catches a glimpse of a familiar prim posture, cropped brown hair, a long beige Burberry coat, and grim pursed lips wrapping everything together.  
Carolyn.

She glances once at Villanelle and lets her eyes linger on Eve for a brief, scrutinizing moment. Eve thinks she finds the slightest bit of pity in the guarded, mysterious, cold depths of her old boss’ eyes. She fucking hates it. Mercifully, Carolyn seems to oblige that feeling.

“I won’t waste time with pleasantries.” She sighs out, once again letting her eyes flit over to Villanelle and taking stock of the outlandish Victorian funeral dress as she takes her scarf from around her neck. “I imagine you’ve both had quite a rough night.”

Quite a rough night. Way to put it mildly, Carolyn. 

Villanelle and Eve meet each other’s eyes as she says this, as if to say “are you hearing this? Did she really just say that?”

“So, let’s get straight to the point, shall we.”

Eve is used to Carolyn’s cold, detached demeanor. She’d like to think that somewhere underneath that façade was the beating heart of an empathetic human being. Even after Carolyn sold her out in Rome. Still, the way she appears so casual, uncaring, and utterly businesslike when their home is a smoking husk of a needle poking a hole in the blissful bubble they’ve been living in turns her stomach. It makes her burn with rage.

Villanelle must sense this because her hand is on the small of Eve’s back a moment later, rubbing soothing circles through the material of her turtle neck.

“Yes.” Eve speaks, clipped and almost sarcastically polite, forced smile and all. “Let’s get to the point, Carolyn.”

“Very well, then.” Carolyn moves to take a seat on the sofa next to Eve, leaving Villanelle looking perturbed. She brushes off Eve’s passive aggression with such grace it’s as if Eve hadn’t said anything at all. And that only infuriates the retired spy more. Especially when Carolyn dares to reach over and move the ash tray and cigarettes on the coffee table to the side table and out of her reach. Villanelle lets a smug grin slip discreetly across her face at Carolyn’s gesture, though it is wiped away almost immediately by the murderous fury she finds seething in the depths of Eve’s eyes when they bore into her a moment later.

They fall into an uncomfortable silence as Carolyn retrieves a file from her coat. It is only a small folder that lands with a barely audible thud on the table, and yet it seems so much larger. Villanelle and Eve don’t even have to communicate to know that they share the same feeling of ambivalent dread. They don’t even have to spare a glance at one another to know that their throats are dried up and their blood is running cold faster than shower water that’s been running for too long. It’s just a collection of paper, with an even larger collection of words inside, but the words inside of that file will have the power to shake their entire foundation. They could ease every fear that’s been running rampant for almost twenty-four hours, or they could soothe those fears. Whatever is in this report will profoundly affect them both.

Villanelle is not sure she’s ready. Living with the suspicion that the Twelve has discovered them again almost seems more comfortable than actually knowing it to be true. She tries to unwind the knots in her stomach with the reminder that they don’t know anything yet. Cross that bridge when we get to it, she remembers. It’s something Eve used to say a lot when they first started their life together with the threat of Helene and the Twelve actually looming over their heads. It brings Villanelle comfort now and she reminds herself not to get too far ahead with her worries. Worrying used to be Eve’s department. She wonders vaguely when and how it became hers, though she knows the answer as plainly as she knows that the sky is blue.

Then Carolyn pulls out a small compact mirror and takes a moment to inspect her lip stick as if she hasn’t just dropped a potential bombshell on an audience of two people who could not be more tightly wound with tension and anxiety if they tried.

Villanelle’s face scrunches and her head tilts inquisitively while Eve’s mouth falls open at the audacity.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Eve sputters out and Carolyn’s ever calm, composed expression directs itself to her. That surprised uptick of an eyebrow only exacerbates Eve’s irritation.

“You don’t have time for pleasantries?” Eve’s voice drips with venom, a venom that coats the emotional baggage of the entire traumatic ordeal she’s just been through with Villanelle. “We don’t have time for your eccentric bullshit.” Her voice raises in intensity until ‘bullshit’ is shouted right into Carolyn’s stoic face. And where Villanelle and Eve would normally temper each other in times of instability, Villanelle is content to let Eve have this moment of rage. 

She needs it like Villanelle needed to vent at Konstantin.

“Get to the damn point, Carolyn.”

The older woman chances another look between the couple that comes across distinctly like she’s gauging how much further they can be pushed, how much crap they can take from anything, before they snap like trees in a gale. And finally, she relents.

“Oh, alright. No need to be so hostile, Eve.” She remarks as her hands find the folder again. “It’s much too early for that.”

Eve can think of a thousand reasons why it’s not too early at all. In fact, she’d argue that it’s overdue. But she keeps her mouth shut this time in favor of paying attention as that wretched file that’s been mocking them with its presence finally falls open on the coffee table.

“The long and short of your situation is that the fire was, officially, at least, an electrical malfunction.”

Eve wants to feel relieved by that, but she hangs on to one word in that sentence. Villanelle beats her to the next question.

“And unofficially?”

“Decidedly more murky.” Carolyn offers simply. The answer is infuriating in the way that it offers almost nothing substantial.

“What does murky mean, Carolyn?” It’s Villanelle’s turn to be impatient. She’s nicer about it so far than Eve has been, but the sharp edge just under the surface of her soft demeanor implies that she’s not going to sit through too much more dancing around the issue, herself.

“Well…”Carolyn trails, choosing her words carefully. “The twelve has had a more active presence in the region of late. It is awfully coincidental that your protected safehouse should go up in flames from a simple electrical fire at such a convenient time. Isn’t it?” 

Villanelle broods on that, even while Carolyn continues to speak. She hears the words, but they become meaningless garble in the background of her mind. She fixates on Konstantin, and how he showed up out of the blue yesterday morning. How their home was gone hours later. How he showed up mere days after Villanelle had been tasked to find him.

Convenient seemed to be exactly the right word.

“Now, I can’t say for certain, mind you, that the Twelve were involved in your unfortunate circumstance.” Carolyn continues. Eve frowns in thought, herself as she listens. The frown deepens with the way she notices how Villanelle has become withdrawn into her thoughts and her face has darkened like she’s coming to some grim, fucked up conclusion.

“However, I also can’t say that there is no connection.”

“What happens now?” Eve takes the reigns of questioning over from Villanelle, who remains deep in thought. She makes a mental note to herself to question Villanelle about it later. 

Carolyn fixes her with a rather bemused expression, and when she speaks, her voice matches it. “You haven’t been out of the field for that long, Eve. I would’ve thought you’d retain some measure of understanding for protocol.” And Eve is rolling her eyes, but Carolyn isn’t done. “Then again…I suppose protocol has never been you’re strong suit, has it?”

“No, smartass.” Eve sighs, exasperated with everything at this point. “I mean what about the twelve.”

Carolyn actually has the gall to smirk at that. Eve wants to smack that knowing expression right off her face. Wants to tell Carolyn that she doesn’t know a damn thing. But that’s never been true. She knows too much. More than she ever lets anyone in on, and that is the crux of Eve’s resentment. Her life—Villanelle’s life—is not some Goddamn game. They aren’t strings to be pulled or puppets to be played with and then tossed aside when they’ve ceased to be useful. It ignites her temper all over again and she meets Carolyn’s self-satisfied little smirk with a look that would leave her six feet under if it could kill.

What difference does it make?

That’s what Carolyn had said to her the last time they were in such a position. And once again, Eve throws it back in her face.

“It may not matter to you in whatever big picture you have in your head. We may not matter to you, but for one fucking second, at least appreciate that our home is gone.” She’s one her feet and looming over Carolyn with a dark fury in her eyes. Villanelle lingers in the background, unsure what to do with herself but burning with the need to comfort Eve. “The least you can do is pretend to have some fucking empathy.”

Even Villanelle winces at that. They all wince at the words as soon as they are out in the open, and yet the feelings behind them have been fighting to be let out for so long now. Since Rome. Since Paris, even, if Eve’s being honest.   
For the first time, Carolyn visibly deflates. Her posture slumps under the weight of a year of repressed emotional baggage.

“I do, Eve.” She speaks, hollow and broken, like she’s trying to shove the feelings back into the chest long enough to put the padlock on it. “Do you really think I’m only here because my job requires me to be? I’m in charge of an entire continent. If this were just work, I could just as easily send a field agent.” She shakes her head and the elephant in the room that is Kenny steps out into the open finally, demanding attention. “No, this is more personal than that.”

Eve is taken aback by her admission. More than that, by her openness. She’s still very much a cold, detached, unreadable figure, but Carolyn has just expressed more emotional depth than Eve imagines that anyone has ever seen from her in her entire life. It leaves the former agent feeling a bit out of her depth, and behind her, Villanelle seems equally uncomfortable with the heavy turn the conversation has taken.

“Wow…”Eve trails off, unable to grab onto a singular thought and come up with something profound to say about the matter at hand.

“What happened to you?”

“You know very well what happened.” Carolyn answers grimly, then adds, “Suffice it to say that therapy suits me better than I imagined it would.”

“Good for you.” Villanelle chimes in after a beat. “You still haven’t answered Eve’s question.”

“Right.” Carolyn pulls something out of her pocket. It’s a key ring with two keys on it along with an address written on a piece of paper. “I’ve arranged for you to be moved to a new safehouse, once we can determine that neither of you have been compromised.” Still, there’s something about the way she speaks—or maybe it’s in her mannerisms—something that trips Villanelle’s senses and makes her feel like there’s something Carolyn isn’t quite saying. 

Maybe Carolyn doesn’t quite know what to make of it herself. Either way, it troubles Villanelle. Eve seems not to have noticed and fixates on Carolyn’s planning instead.

“How could we be compromised?” Villanelle asks. “We haven’t been followed; I made sure of that. And everything that could be bugged was…lost.” And God, how it hurts her to say that. She places a hand on Eve’s shoulder to ground herself as horrific visions from that blaze come back to front and center inside her mind again. Eve covers the bandaged hand on her shoulder with her own and squeezes it gently, fighting against similar thoughts.

“Valid point.” Carolyn spares them the faintest sympathetic glance and the look is gone as quickly as it came. “Still, there are so many variables at play here. I’d like to be sure it is safe before we move you two again.” Carolyn clasps her hands with a finality, as if she thinks that explanation is enough. And it’s not. Not at all. So many implications and questions live just under the surface of her words that the couple is left frustrated all over again. Villanelle thinks back to her chess game with the senior agent and it leaves a sour taste in her mouth to see Carolyn poised in much the same position, as if she’s looking over her chess board trying to figure out where to best move her pieces. Because that’s what she and Eve are: Pawns in whatever game is unfolding. They’re both so sick of it.  
“What exactly does that mean, Carolyn?” Villanelle scoffs, crossing her arms across herself like a sullen teenager. Eve recognizes the gesture for what it is. She’s feeling far too vulnerable, attempting to shield herself from Carolyn’s piercing gaze. And maybe even from the moment itself. “And how can we trust you?”

“I suppose I deserve that.” Carolyn smirks, pretending not to hear the soft whisper of “no shit” that falls from Eve’s lips. “I think you two know perfectly well what I mean.” And the coy expression that accompanies that is less comforting than either of the couple would like. Her focus shifts to Eve next. “You know how I hate unknowns. I simply would like to know more before I make a move. What you choose to do with any of this is your choice. It matters not if you trust me.” Her phrasing isn’t lost on Villanelle, who is reminded for at least the third time in just as many minutes of Carolyn’s stupid love of strategy games.

“Who are you playing with now?” Villanelle asks, unfolding her arms and piercing through her with a searching expression. The absolutely predatory, angry grin that spreads across her lips even makes Eve shiver to look at it in profile. “No bullshit.”

Carolyn just stares right back, looking infuriatingly prim and collected, and even more infuriatingly smug. Then they watch the light turn on behind her eyes, the eureka moment, as if she’s just recalled something of vital import (she hasn’t, they’re sure of that. Carolyn is always perfectly calculated.)

“Villanelle, may I speak to you in private for a moment.” Eve almost barks out a laugh at that because goddamn this woman is too much. She knows damn well that comment won’t go without objection. Eve opens her mouth to do just that, but Carolyn silences her with a look and beats her to it. “Oh, don’t look so offended, Eve. I just thought, given your penchant for impulsivity, this next bit of information would be best shared in private.”

She watches the two share a loaded look. The last time Villanelle attempted to keep a secret for Carolyn did not go well. Eve and Villanelle operate best with honesty. They always have. 

“Speak.” Villanelle shrugs. Carolyn takes it for what it is. Villanelle and Eve presenting a united front, quietly telling her she can say whatever she has to say to both of them as their hands join discreetly.

“This was found at the old safe house this morning. Does it mean anything to either of you.”

They watch as Carolyn opens the file and flips to the back. There is a picture of a beautiful, vibrant floral arrangement in all sorts of colors that seem to jump right out of the photo. It looks familiar. Too familiar. Because it’s the same floral arrangement Villanelle had sent to Eve back when she hired her. And then there is a note on top of the box. Eve is the first to read what it says and she feels her blood run cold. The way Villanelle’s hand tenses in hers shortly after tells her that Villanelle has drawn the same conclusion. 

“Dear Eve,   
I’m terribly sorry to hear about your home.  
, Diane”

“Helene.” Villanelle growls. She suddenly feels as if she’s drowning. Every bit of the fear, panic, worry, anxiety, and anger she’s harbored for the twelve over the last year comes back full force and threatens to swallow her whole. Eve is still stuck on the photo, her forensic mind overrides her emotions for the smallest moment and she recognizes how the words of the note are addressed to her, yet the actual gesture of the floral arrangement is a message to Villanelle. 

And just like flipping a switch, Villanelle’s whole demeanor shifts. Oksana takes a back seat to the hardened assassin and it’s her turn to loom over Carolyn.

“How long have you known?”

“Known what, precisely?”

Villanelle lets out a frustrated growl, tired of Carolyn’s deflections. Her manipulations. Her deception. Her omissions.

“I just saw you not even five days ago. Did you know Helene was here then? Did you know that we were in danger?”

“You were always in danger.” Carolyn says in a matter-of-fact way that causes Villanelle to falter. Her eyes widen in stark realization. They are not safe. They never were. And they won’t be; not until the twelve are finally taken care of. “Though I suppose it does no good to point that out at present. But, to answer your question, I just learned of her operations here this morning. Seems she owns a hotel as a legitimate business front.” 

Villanelle runs her hands through her hair, distraught and frantically trying to grasp at any life line she can as the ground continues to rumble and shift under her feet and topple the happiness that she managed to carve out for herself with Eve at her side. The thought of Eve burns inside her mind and her heart. She doesn’t have it in her to go through that near death experience they just had. If she lost eve, well, she might as well be dead too. And the thought forming in her mind feels like crawling naked across a mile of shattered glass to even think about but…  
Carolyn and Eve are having some sort of bickering, meaningless exchange as Eve openly panics and Villanelle drowns in a series of thoughts, each more horrifying than the last. She knew they couldn’t stay safe forever, but she had been hopeful that they could stay safe longer. She had been hopeful not to wind up back on Helene’s radar, of all people. Then Eve breaks her from her rumination.

"Wait...you just said you can't say that the twelve are responsible." Eve gawks at Carolyn. Her thoughts are racing and that seems to be the only one that she can latch onto. So she does.

"And I couldn't. At least until a moment ago." Carolyn's shoulders lift ever so slightly in a vague shrug. "A box of flowers absent any context is hardly proof positive."

"What the fuck." Is the only sentence Eve can muster. She's shell-shocked and the only thing that keeps her rooted to the present is Villanelle's hand in her own.

“I meant it; you know. I don’t need either of you to believe me. But if you’ll indulge me just a moment longer, I do have a word of advice.”

“And what’s that?” Eve asks bitterly.

“Speak with Konstantin. He’ll be able to provide some answers that I can’t, I should imagine.”

Eve and Villanelle both fixate on that because just how long had Carolyn known Konstantin had arrived in Florence? How much did the twelve really know about his whereabouts? These are all questions Villanelle promises to herself to explore later. Betrayal is the norm for her relationship with her old handler, but if he really sold them out to the twelve…

Villanelle’s fists clench just thinking of all the ways she would make him hurt, especially if something happens to Eve. She only hopes history hasn’t repeated itself between them again.

Somewhere in all her thoughts, Carolyn and Eve meander over to the door and leave her rooted to the spot where she’s been standing. Villanelle feels like she can breathe again when that dark cloud of bad news surrounding Carolyn has gone and she sees Eve alive and well and with her, though the gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach reminds her that Eve’s safety—their safety—may be a fleeting prospect. She’s never wanted to cry so badly.

Eve is there for that too. She holds Villanelle with comforting words and soothing kisses. Villanelle holds and comforts Eve the same way. Their closeness relaxes the assassin, and sets her on edge all over again as she asks herself how.

How will she ever keep Eve safe?

\---------------------------------------

Morning finds Konstantin sitting at a little café on the river. He’s cautious and aware of his surroundings as he sips his latte. It isn’t that he’s expecting anyone in particular today, but at the same time, trouble has a way of turning up when it isn’t expected. He’s always been a believer in vigilance. Being snuck up on too many times over the last couple of years has only reinforced that.

So, when Villanelle slides right into the seat across from him, he can’t help the startled scream that rips from his throat.

“Good morning, Konstantin!” Villanelle greets with a foreboding cheeriness that makes him shrink into his seat as he notices that there are pedestrians staring at them. He gestures wildly for her to keep her voice down and she just smiles. Her hands find bits of his scone and she plops some into her mouth and then throws another bit to a couple of birds that linger nearby on the walkway.

“Why?” She tsks at him with a knowing expression that shows just enough of the dangerous, violent anger bubbling inside of her. “Are you afraid someone might notice you?”

And with that, there’s a thick, suffocating tension between them again. It’s the start of a familiar dance that they’re both used to, but they’re both tired of it. Konstantin’s expression darkens and Villanelle responds in kind. The pedestrians around them lose interest quickly and continue on their strolls.

“What is this about, Villanelle?”

A squirrel skitters up the tree behind Konstantin and Villanelle’s eyes flicker to it briefly. She watches it carry food up to the nest and finds herself feeling envious. At least the squirrel has a home. Then she settles back on Konstantin again and he’s surprised to see her eyes swimming with hurt and betrayal. Didn’t they bury that hatchet just recently?

“Can you really say you don’t know?” Villanelle’s voice is thick with unshed tears and she hates how quickly she’s given into her emotions. Crying on Konstantin’s shoulder is not the conversation she had planned.

“I have no idea what this is about.” She really does want to believe him. The sincerity in his voice and the confusion in his brow make compelling points, but she can’t quite allow herself the hope that he’s not the asshole in all of this again.

“You are so full of shit.” 

“I don’t!” They are the center of attention again and he remembers that the last thing he needs is to make a scene. Or for Villanelle to make a scene. He repeats himself again in a whisper.

“I don’t.” 

“Really?” Villanelle’s anger and hurt flare to the surface and she doesn’t have to say anything more than that. The betrayal and hurt from their history pass between them with a mere gaze. He feels deep regret that he’s pushed her to this point. She’s been screwed over by everyone in her life and he’s yet another disappointment. But he still has no idea why she’s currently upset with him.

“Villanelle…”He tries softly, as if carefully approaching a wild animal. “Tell me what happened?”

The way her eyes well up and her mouth opens and closes several times reminds him of when he asked about her mother. 

“Eve?”

“Is alive.” She takes a shaky breath, fidgeting nervously. And maybe she shouldn’t have come here so soon. She feels so lost, so vulnerable. The feeling gnaws at her and makes her itchy on the inside. She hates it.

“There was a fire.”

“Jesus.” Konstantin breathes out. The way he sounds so surprised and so genuinely horrified is the last push Villanelle needs to believe that he didn’t have a hand in this.

“Listen, Villanelle…I would never…I would never be part of that.”

Her eyes snap up to meet his so fast that he’s afraid she might have whiplash. The venom in them strikes out at him and reminds him of one very crucial fact.

“You have done that.” Villanelle snaps and they fall into a tense silence. The musical chirping of birds that fills it seems like a joyful mockery of their fucked up situation. The way that life moves on and people mill about on a bright and shiny Tuesday morning while Villanelle and Eve’s world continues to crumble seems so cruel. It reminds her that she is insignificant.

“I have.” Konstantin says, remembering how happy he felt for Villanelle only days ago. How he walked through the home they had shared and the life they had built and understood, finally, why they were so drawn to each other for those two years. It was a connection that almost felt sacred. Even he wasn’t low enough to mess with that. Especially knowing that Villanelle has never had another person care for her like that. He cared, in his own way, but he was a flawed man and a terrible father. To Villanelle and Irina. He shoves that thought back into the dusty, untouched corners of his mind where it can be ignored again.

“But, I would never destroy something so important to you. Whatever you think of me, I’m not that despicable.”  
Villanelle eyes him cautiously. She believes him now, but their relationship is transactional and that belief comes at a price.

“Okay.” She chirps, uncharacteristically perky for the mood. Her expression darkens immediately after into the most frightening thing he’s ever seen. She’s actually shot him and this is the first time that he truly feels terror deep in his bones from her. “I believe you.”

She leans across the table with her hands folded neatly in front of her. The hint of a snarl that twists her “love in an elevator” painted lips is enough to chill him even more deeply. 

“But if I find out that you are lying I will kill you in the most painful way you can imagine.”

And he believes her. He’s seen enough to know that she’s ferociously protective. He can relate to that. There’s nothing…okay one thing…that he won’t do for his own family. Even if his family hates him and they won’t actually speak to him. It’s then that he resolves to help Villanelle. Maybe if he can pay enough penance, there just might be enough left of the wreckage of their friendship to salvage.

“I deserve that.” He sighs, weary and exhausted. They’re both exhausted. Exhausted of the twelve. Exhausted of running. Exhausted of betrayal.

“You do.”

There’s another beat of silence between them. At least this time it’s more comfortable than the last. There’s still resentment, but it feels less cumbersome now, like they needed to come to a mutual understanding. And that understanding allows them to fall back into easy habits despite the danger that looms for both of them.

“You know, Konstantin…you were very easy to find.” Villanelle says innocently, taking another piece of his scone and popping it into her mouth. “I think you’ve grown rusty.”

He cackles loudly at that last stage whispered bit and throws it right back. “At least I’m not the only one.” He looks at her pointedly. She swallows thickly at the truth of it. She’s still sharp, but she’s been retired long enough that her skills are not quite what they once were. It’s a sobering realization that settles like a weight in the pit of her stomach. She can’t contend with Helene as she is now. It’s there that her mind starts forming a plan. She knows what needs to be done. 

“Looks like we both have some work to do, no?” It doesn’t escape Konstantin how the smile on her face doesn’t quite reach her eyes. He relaxes back into his seat. There's a lot to unpack and he resigns himself to a long chat.


End file.
